


Resurgent

by Euregatto



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe, Body Horror, Body Modification, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Church-centric, Eventual Relationships, Explicit Language, F/F, F/M, Florida is best friend material, Human Experimentation, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Project Freelancer, Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-17
Updated: 2017-07-11
Packaged: 2018-04-14 10:09:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 60,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4560597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Euregatto/pseuds/Euregatto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Freelancer-based AU in which Church is a Freelancer himself, much to the dismay of everyone else around him.</p><p>[ARC 1]<br/>There’s an abrasive new recruit in training under the codename agent Oregon, and he's not half-bad, really, despite the mystery surrounding his existence. It’s just a shame that he can’t seem to handle a stupid sniper rifle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mission One: The Oregon Conspiracy

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the songs "Be Your Shadow" by the Wombats and "Chasing Ghosts" by The Eden Project.
> 
> A Freelancer-based AU in which the Director never lost the woman he loved but instead desires to create something extraordinary with his project, no matter what the cost... and Church is a Freelancer himself, much to the dismay of literally everyone else around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update 7.14: since this story was written (way) before the revelation of agents Iowa, Ohio, and Idaho, the triplets will not be featured.

_"Mr. Commissioner, let me begin by explaining – zzzt – mos – pr – th – this drastic measure is only being taken to ensure the survival of Pro – Free – Reela – You need not worry about the soldier… he's nameless – w – fit right in with the rest of the program… F – zzzt – work with Alpha personally. Some mem – loss in order, altercations should be made to minimize risks – need wor – zzt – …Signing off, Dr. – ard – Urch – zztt…"_

The rest of the recording is damaged and only emits static.

* * *

**Resurgent**

   

   

   

  

"Let me just start by saying, it's not my fault."

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

No sooner than the words leave her mouth, the building rocks with a deafening bang. The explosion occurs from what she approximates to be nearly a hundred stories above them, which is the floor that they had spent the last half hour working their way towards. Wash pitches back into the wall but Carolina catches her balance with precision. Almost as soon as the blast emits, shards of glass and debris hail down passed the hallway window to her left, and the alarm system shrieks to life. It floods the passage with alternating reds and blues that immediately give Carolina a throbbing headache.

Because obviously, her team hadn't managed to accomplish that already.

"What the hell was that, Wash?" Carolina seethes.

Washington hesitates to answer right away, merely steadying himself on his feet as the vibrating in the floor settles down. "Uh… So remember how I said that the place might be rigged if they were expecting our arrival? And that this whole mission could actually be a trap?"

"Yes, so?"

"Well…I tried to tell Texas that too."

Carolina's blood boils. She grits her teeth, attempts to recollect herself. "She went ahead and triggered it, didn't she?"

"First of all, it wasn't her. She actually acknowledged my warning and said she was going to find a way to disable the explosives." Another blast rocks the building again, with much less intensity than the first. Washington recovers once more before continuing. "However, our back-up didn't seem to have any capability of caring for my orders, and he stormed off with the distinct shout of 'Fuck that, they're bluffing'."

Carolina hesitates a split moment before glaring upwards at the ceiling. A plume of dust filters down in response to another, significantly smaller blast. "Who the shit is our back-up?"

"That new guy, Agent Oregon. He dropped down like fifteen minutes ago."

"Great, he's a fucking idiot. Like we don't have enough of those already."

"Hey, I warned him."

"And you didn't stop him because…?"

"…He was adamant."

"Ugh. We'd better get to him before we lose the package and he blows this whole operation to the seventh level of hell!"

Washington watches her swiftly dart off down the hall and into the stairwell, leaving him to sigh despondently and shake his head. "Looks like he's already done just that…" The building pitches once more and the structure groans in defiance. Metal screams from somewhere above him, resonating with twisting framework and cracking concrete. It's about to be the second time this month they've managed to decimate an entire city block by collapsing a three-hundred story building.

"The Director is _not_ going to be pleased."

At the same time, ninety floors higher, a Freelance soldier in light blue- and white accented-armor teeters on the edge of a drop-off that used to be a wall with windows, had he not triggered the emergency destruction devices lined in the floor. Behind him is a collapsed platform that used to be the office. Several stories below that is where the remainders lie. If he chooses to strain his eyesight, he can see the mangled corpse of their target, the company's CEO, with his head detached from his shoulders and sitting, quit gruesomely, several yards across from the rest of him.

Agent Oregon doesn't want to peer down, however, because the only things keeping him barely balanced on this unstable edge are the sniper rifle in one hand, and the metallic briefcase in the other. He exhales carefully. If I die, at least I won't have to apologize to Washington for being right. If I don't die…well, fuck him. He should have tried harder to stop me!

Another explosive goes off somewhere, nearly throwing him from his perch.

_But I am **definitely** apologizing to the Director. He's going to be **pissed**._

Footsteps echo from down the corridor. Only a split second later Carolina appears in the hole in the wall that used to be a door before he broke them down with a dead guard's shot gun. She glances below her at the wreckage, and then glares back up at him (he can't see her face through that helmet, but he's had enough women upset with him to know when they're really, really close to blowing a gasket). "Agent Oregon! What in the Hell do you think you're doing?!"

"Well, since you ask so nicely…" He stares around absently. "I'm actually wondering why this place is rigged with so many goddamn explosives. Did that guy seriously find all this bullshit necessary?"

"…"

"…Also, would you mind helping me down?"

Carolina groans. "Freaking idiot…"

* * *

   

   

   

   

  

_24 hours prior…_

"So I'm just going out on limb when I say this, but that new recruit doesn't seem like he's going to last a day in the field."

"Give him a chance. Besides, we haven't met him yet. We don't know what he's actually like." North Dakota passes his sister a sideways glance when she leans forward on the railing and huffs. He amends his statement with, "I'm not saying he looks good enough to pass you on the leaderboard, though."

"That's literally not what I'm worried about."

"That's all you're ever worried about."

South gestures through the window to the battlefield simulator. Agent Oregon is on the floor with York's knee in his back and his arm twisted at a wince-inducing angle, tapping furiously and flailing his legs uselessly. _"Owowow! Let me go you fucker! You're gonna rip it off and I need that arm for shooting!_ "

 _"Shooting what?"_ York remarks snidely, _"I've seen your scores. You couldn't hit a boulder at point blank range with a scatter shot."_

"He's dead meat," South concludes, pushing herself upright.

Washington shrugs passively. "Maybe he's just a lab experiment to level us up to the regular troopers. Like comparing notes on progress. The Director is probably going to have him shipped out by the end of the week, or something. Regardless, I wouldn't bother worrying about him."

Silence permeates through the room.

"I think any addition is a fine addition," agent Florida admits quietly.

The door to the room slides open. Maine enters first with Carolina in tow, and immediately behind them is their mysterious Director. The soldiers all line up reflexively to salute him, but he shoots his hand up to halt them in their places. "No need to be so formal today, soldiers. I am just here to see how the new recruit is doing."

Carolina scoffs when she gazes down at the spectacle below. "If York is merciful, maybe he'll last another five seconds."

"Has Agent Oregon neglected to put up a challenge?"

"Clearly."

South chortles under her breath before facing their director. "We should send in Texas. She'll get a good work-out and have a toothpick to scrape out the remains from her teeth."

CT, who had been standing across the room observing silently, finally speaks up. "Uhm, sir? Although I'm not against your decision to recruit another Freelancer onto this program, I am questioning why…him. He doesn't appear to possess any skill qualifications equal to ours"—"At all," South adds.—"so why are we wasting our time? It feels more like target practice, but I'm starting to sympathize with the target."

"Essentially," Wyoming remarks from behind the group, "he is quite…pathetic."

"I was trying to say useless, but I guess that works too."

The Director approaches the panel before the observatory windows. "He just needs the right kind of stimulus. I have yet to find what that is…but perhaps you are right, South."

"Of course I am."

"FILSS," the Director remarks to the panel, and the icon on the center screen spins to life, "tell York his time is up. Send in Texas instead."

FILSS recites the order to York as the main door glides open to allow Texas access to the room. He gives them a thumbs up in response, leaving Oregon writhing in pain, clutching at his throbbing arm and shouting vulgar insults to cope for his damaged dignity.

"And now he dies," Wyoming says matter-of-factly. "Nice knowing you, old chap."

"Who has a camera?" South asks next.

The Director blatantly ignores them, focusing his attention on the two soldiers now occupying the training arena.

Oregon rises to his feet steadily as Texas moves into the ring. He continues to massage the ache in his right shoulder, silently cursing that York guy for having such an unforgiving grip. "So you're my next opponent," he states with feigned confidence, though his voice cracks a bit and he has to clear his throat. "Is it cause the other guy got scared of me? Rightfully so! I'm great. At everything. He didn't stand a chance."

"Yeah, you were winning alright. Must have strained your arm going for that gold."

"…Don't patronize me, bitch."

She launches forward with blinding speed. Like a viper her movements are nearly invisible to his untrained eyes, inducing fear and adrenaline like lightning in his veins. Before he can comprehend exactly what's happened, she's wrapped her arms around his neck, twisted violently with all the torque centered in her torso, and snapped his spine like a pencil.

The sickening crack reverberates through the intercom.

"That was quick," Carolina utters in the too silent room. "But that settles things. He was a really bad choice for this job, sir."

The Director doesn't move, doesn't blink. He just watches.

Texas backs away from the limp body and scoffs. "Well, that was a big waste of fucking time."

Just as suddenly as she starts to leave, something rams into her back with the force of a truck, sending her sailing into the far wall face-first. She recovers abruptly, pushes back and jumps away instinctively just as Oregon rams his fist into the plated concrete. Sweeping enough distance between them, she repositions herself, raising her fists to her face in her standard combat style.

Oregon gradually turns to her. He cocks his head to one side, neck bones popping back into their line. They arrange as if they were never displaced, as if she hadn't just killed him mere seconds ago. _Killed him. I snapped his fucking neck and he's…_

"So you're that Texas chick I've heard so much about," Oregon jeers, giving his head a roll to settle the final pieces back into place. "Nice to finally meet you. Name's Agent Oregon, and in case you don't get it by now, I'm not very fond of being tenderly murdered on the first date."

"Didn't know this was a date," Tex snaps back, "but if you don't mind taking lead, I'll be glad to dance."

From the observatory, Washington exchanges an uneasy glance with CT, the only other agent who seems to express notions about the mystery being the project's veil. Their director has a lot of explaining to do about this one, but they've never gotten anything out of him before involving other concerns like the AI program, so Washington doubts he'll be able to receive any of the answers he's looking for at this time. It worries him, deeply.

It worries him to know that something isn't right about agent Oregon.

_"GAH – SHIT!"_

The shout is strangled by the distinct sound of metal on metal. Texas hefts Oregon over her head like he's a sack of potatoes and chucks him at the observatory with little more than a grunt. He slams into the window with enough force to crack the panel, which earns less than a flinch from the battle's onlookers.

 _"Ow, fuck"_ —he descends the length of the Plexiglas, drops off to the floor with a thud.

The Director turns on his heel to face the exit. "Better, but still not what he needs."

"Director?" Carolina addresses, but he's already ventured out the door, leaving the Freelancers standing in collective silence.

* * *

_Currently…_

"I'm not doing that!"

"And why the Hell not?"

"Oh, I dunno, maybe because there's a several thousand foot drop between me and the pavement, and if I fall from this high up in the goddamn sky, I could die! And knowing you and your ragtag group of psychopathic super soldiers, you'd leave me there." He peers down, snaps his gaze back over to her. "…Wouldn't even have the decency to build me a statue in my honor."

Carolina rolls her eyes. "Jesus Oregon, just jump to me! Eventually this building will have to fall down and either way, you're getting to the ground."

"Shit, good point."

"Besides, why are you afraid of death? Didn't Texas snap your neck just yesterday?"

"There's only so much I can do to amend my body! If it's mangled beyond repair, then you can politely go and shove my neck bones right up your ass!"

Carolina emits a strangled sigh of frustration. "Either jump right now or I'm going to shoot you! And then I'll simply pry the briefcase from your cold, dead, mangled fingers, you stupid son of a bitch!"

Washington and Texas appear at Carolina's side, each diverging from either direction. "This place's gone to shit!" Wash announces, but his shout ebbs off into an incoherent sound of confusion. "We – uh, we have to go. Like ASAP. What are you two doing?"

"He won't move and he has our package," Carolina hisses, gesturing with her weapon.

"Stop being immature," Texas calls out in turn. "At least throw the package to us so we can leave without you."

"In that case I'll just keep it!"

Carolina raises the assault rifle to line up with his forehead. "Goddammit, Oregon! I do _not_ have time for this!"

"None of us have time for this," Wash utters. From somewhere below them, another explosion fractures the foundation and he can feel the floor giving out beneath its own weight.

Texas suddenly vaults forward, barreling her full force into the teetering Oregon and sending them both careening over the edge. Oregon's scream of surprise is cut off abruptly by the howling wind. "No!" Carolina snaps, breaking into a sprint down the corridor. "I will not let her take _another_ lead! Come on Wash!"

Washington exhales an exasperated sigh. "Yes ma'am…"

* * *

_20 Hours Prior…_

"Okay, I'll bite the peach. What are you looking at?"

Texas doesn't realize she had been staring at all until agent Florida's saccharine tone drags her out of her own mind. She nearly crawls out of her own skin to acknowledge the fact that someone is actually addressing her with something other than malice, so it takes several seconds for her to respond to the inconspicuous display of genuine kindness. Then again, she's never expected any less out of someone as persistently jovial as Florida.

"It's nothing," she replies listlessly.

"But you've had your eyes on that kid the whole time I've been here."

She doesn't appreciate where his implications are steering and rolls with a different subject, hoping – praying – that they can take agent Oregon off the topic for the moment. At the very least, she would prefer to avoid drowning herself in anxiety over the several hundred questions she has involving the man across the ward. (Such as why he looks so familiar, what kind of person can surpass death, why he looks so goddamn familiar). "Why are you here?"

Florida approaches the window overlooking the infirmary. He poises by her side with a delicate presence, offering neither comfort nor harm, just a neutral soul with a gentle charisma. In a way, it almost unnerves her. "Just came to see how the new recruit was holding up."

So much for changing the subject. "He's fine, just got some bruises from our fight."

"And according to that chart beside him, he's got himself a newly broken jaw."

Texas sighs. "It _was_ broken. Mysteriously, it healed up while the medic was still finishing the examination."

"That's both incredibly fascinating and particularly odd. Now how did a nice guy like him come across such a uniquely perplex ability?"

Texas gazes into the room again. Oregon is sitting upright on his assigned bed, browsing articles on a tablet device while sipping his soda through a bendy straw. He's much more different in person than he is inside that suit; Tex observes every movement, every hesitation and every crescendo of his breath. Watches how his muscles contract when he shifts, gets distracted by simple whistles or how he scruffs his dark hair when a topic on an article frustrates him. He almost appears uncomfortable to reside outside his encasing armor.

At some point he makes eye contact with her. His stare pierces through the protective curve of her visor, delving into the abysmal waters of memories she represses. As if he knows her from somewhere. As if she's known him for a long, long time.

It makes her skin itch.

Then he returns to abruptly lounging around, and the tension alleviates.

"It definitely has something to do with the Director," she says finally, backing away from the window. "Oregon may not be much of a fighter, but that kind of power is dangerous in the wrong hands."

Florida casts her a forlorn look. "Do you think it has something to do with an AI?"

"…I'm not sure. I doubt the Director would leave this guy with such fragile equipment, but even stranger yet..." Texas lowers her voice, as if there might be an extra person hiding in the shadows on the walls. "I had CT look him up in the roster database. You know who doesn't have their name listed there?"

"The Director."

"Right. But also, him. To make this worse, he was also noted for having been equipped with an AI prior to his official enlistment in the project, just like I was." Florida is eerily quiet, just watches her carefully. She breathes before droning on, "So the answer is that I'm not sure if his ability has anything to do with this nameless AI, but I'm also not comfortable with the fact that if it does, why hasn't the Director spoken up about it? And why doesn't he communicate with it?"

"Perhaps it isn't much of an extrovert."

"Perhaps he doesn't know about it."

"But he has to."

"Does he?"

Florida presses his lips into a thin line. "Maybe I should keep a low-key eye on him then," he suggests, heading for the infirmary door. "Better introduce myself, while I'm at it. It makes me right as rain to befriend new people! Oh, and, take care now Tex. Try not to let this whole Oregon conspiracy thing freak you out; stress is bad for the body."

As the door slides shut Texas briskly exits the ward, but she can feel a familiar pair of eyes burrowing into her back as she goes.

* * *

_Currently…_

"If I die I'm haunting your ass!"

The weight of the armor is making his descent that much faster. The pavement is barely visible from up here, but it's rapidly ascending to meet him and his mind is rifling through a hundred thoughts at once in attempt to find the answer to his escape from imminent death. His initial idea is to use Texas as a landing pad for shoving him in the first place, but she's the one now grasping the briefcase after snatching it from his hands, and knowing the Director's fancy for both of them, would prefer to at least keep one of the two things intact. Getting Texas out alive might even alleviate the reprimanding he'll no doubt receive in exchange for fucking up the whole goddamn mission. His secondary plan is to use himself as a landing pad so that he won't have to live through that lecture.

Texas glances Oregon once over. "You say that like you're certain I'm going to survive."

"Are you telling me you pushed us both off a ledge without a back-up plan?!"

"Oh no, I have one." She flips around the double-barreled shotgun strapped to her back and fires at the air. The blast angles her towards the building so she can properly divert her course at an upcoming window pane, which shatters upon her impact.

Oregon sails by. "…Well, fuck you then."

As if on cue, a figure launches from one of the collapsed walls of the building. They activate their jet pack, rocketing downwards on a wide spiral to catch up quickly to Oregon, who's nearly locked at terminal velocity. "Don't worry Oregon!" the soldier exclaims, catching the other man by the back plating of his armor. "I've gotcha!"

"Florida?!"

"Figured you could've used my help," the agent in blue burbles, executing a broad arc back up into the sky, "and don't be so formal! Why don't you call me something friendly, like Flowers, or just Butch?"—he pivots into the air currents, bringing them back towards the smoking building. "By the by, the rescue ship is here, let's go home."

Oregon clutches his sniper rifle close. "Forget that shit! Launch me through a window!"

"You want to go back in there? It's collapsing! The place was apparently heavily rigged with explosives – the CEO really didn't want us getting that package."

"…Uh, yeah. Total news to me. But I need to retrieve that briefcase back from Texas if I plan on getting some kind of score under my belt!"

Florida chuckles heartily. "Well, I can't say no to such an eager request. Your persistence is downright adorable! Alright son, here we go!" He nosedives towards the lower levels of the structure and turns into an acute arc. At the flat of the turn he releases Oregon, sling-shooting him through a cracked window pane leading into what could pass as a meeting room. Oregon rolls twice into the toss to control his landing, despite stumbling when rising back to his feet; he utilizes the inertia, rams through the sealed glass doors to the exit.

The corridor to his right explodes with a funnel of fire from a placed bomb. And then, he recognizes the distinct sonance of a firing shotgun and rapid-fire bullets piercing walls and metal.

Hooking his rifle to his back and drawing out his hand gun, he takes off to the left, following the noises to their source one floor above him. The stairwell has been clogged with debris now; he instead uses the portion of collapsed ceiling to scale to the next level, grappling wires as support. Texas is in the next hallway over squared off against two guards. She takes the first down swiftly by checking him across the face with the briefcase, and follows through with a hook-kick that snaps the other guard's neck like a toothpick.

What's with this chick and breaking necks?

Texas spots him as he rushes up to meet her. "Oh, you're alive."

"First of all, fuck you for leaving me to drop to my death. Secondly, if we don't get out of here, neither of us will be alive much longer."

"…You came back for me?" she asks as more of a fact than a question.

He hesitates at her remark. She doesn't say it like she's angry, or even concerned; the gentle timbre in her usually stoic voice leads him to believe that she's genuinely confused by his choice. Oregon has to shake his head just to recollect himself from his intrinsic thoughts, because really, he wanted the package for himself – but if it had been Washington, or York, or even the Dakota twins, would he have come back in for them too? The logical conclusion is that yes, he would have, but only to attempt to steal back the briefcase. Yet for her…he can't rid his mind of the speculation that he is more concerned for Texas than for whatever is inside the case.

"I only came for the package!" He snaps back after faltering too long.

She drops her emptied shot gun to the floor to lighten her load and hands him the briefcase. "Then take this, we're getting out of here before the building can't support itself anymore."

"And how do you expect to do that?"

"Get as far down as we can," she informs him as she loads her side arm with a fresh clip, "call in the rescue."

"You do realize that it's thirty levels down, right? We'll never make it!"

"And do you have a better plan?"

Oregon opens his mouth to respond, pauses. "Actually, I might. If I'm remembering the schematics from before correctly, we're about three levels above a floor that leads to one of five emergency garage levels, which are all connected to lead down to the street. If it hasn't been destroyed yet, we could find something to use."

"You actually paid attention to that briefing?" Texas asks incredulously.

"Sort of. Now, how do military-issued armored vehicles sound?"

"Like an absolute turn-on."

"…Really?"

" _Don't_ get any ideas."

He scoffs, but when she raises her gun to his forehead, he steps back cautiously. "Okay, okay! Let's just go."

* * *

_8 Hours Prior…_

Oregon hasn't been to the locker room since yesterday, despite the facility tour he had received later on from agent Florida. He figures it's bound to be empty this early (space doesn't have a relative day period, but they tend to operate based on the Director's 24 hour schedule regardless, so Oregon has adapted to following that instead), when the others are no doubt still passed out in bed from the long day of intense training prior. Unfortunately for him, Oregon had been excluded after Texas broke his jaw with a lethal hook punch (not that surprising to say the least, given her vastly superior capabilities in comparison to his) so he never got to witness North Dakota utilizing his new AI, Theta, in action.

From what he can tell so far, the AIs have been assigned to several of the top Freelance agents. He has yet to make contact with the AI installed in his own suit himself, although he assumes that they're handy in the battlefield. Which also leads him to wondering whether Texas has her own.

He's only slept a few hours but feels rejuvenated, so he considers changing into his uniform to partake in training exercises before the others stirred. Dressed down in his pants and t-shirt, he crosses through the rectangular room and shoves the remainder of his breakfast muffin into his mouth. There hadn't been any Freelancers down in the mess hall either, only several personal and the chef, who was just in the process of laying out food. Oregon supposes he could get accustomed to avoiding them, especially after losing so easily to York in a simple fist fight.

"Whoa – Jesus!"

He nearly slaps himself trying to cover his eyes as he walks in on Texas. She's sitting on the bench in a tank top with the lower half of her gear already situated to her body, lengthy blonde hair tied up in a bun and half a breakfast bar hanging out of her mouth. She's far from naked, but he hasn't seen any of his comrades out of their respective armors yet, so to him she's giving off the same impression as being utterly nude.

"Sorry," he apologizes quickly, lowering his hands from his eyes, "didn't know you were in here."

"It's okay. I always come early so I can avoid everyone else. They've reached the conclusion that I don't even use my locker for anything but to flaunt my status." Texas watches him visibly relax before he makes his way over to his locker, which is sitting on the end beside Washington's. Her curious gaze rakes him over once. She gets the distinct feeling that she knows him, that she's seen him from somewhere before or that perhaps he just resembles someone she might know. "What are you doing up so early?"

"Couldn't sleep. You?"

She finishes her bar, throws it away in the wastebin across the room. "I just told you."

"No, I mean, what are you planning on doing?"

Texas smiles at him and scoops her bangs behind one ear, fastening them in place with a black clip. From this angle he can see the chip latched into the back of her neck. "I'm contemplating on some training exercises. You might want to sit those out, considering how I broke half your bones in one session alone."

"Fuck _off_."

This time she laughs. And something about it is beautiful to him, like faded memories of falling snow and river rapids and horizons. It reminds him of a memory that lingers just out of his reach, yet he could have sworn they happened so recently the details would be descriptively clear to him.

"But I wouldn't mind the company, if you don't mind a broken rib."

He shrugs casually. "Guess I can't pass up a hands-on learning opportunity from the top of the leaderboard. But, just one question."

"Yes?"

"I've heard from the others that you don't like training with them…why are you so lenient with me?"

Texas gazes off in another direction, yet her smile doesn't leave her face. "Maybe because you've treated me better than they have. And a little kindness goes a long way with me…it goes a long, long way…"

* * *

_Currently…_

The building collapses just as Texas slams her foot on the gas pedal and they break out of the lower garage. Despite the debris storm in their rearview mirror Tex manages to evade the blast and races along an ascending loop onto the highway overpass, clearing the battlefield at nearly a hundred and twenty miles an hour. She weaves through the other vehicles with precision. Oregon grasps the briefcase in one hand while anchoring himself to the seat with the other, tossing with the motion of the jeep.

 _"Did everyone make it out?!"_ Carolina shouts into the intercom.

 _"Copy that,"_ Florida chirps. _"I have faith in the capabilities of our team. We'll all be fine, and when I see you again I'll even give you the biggest bear hug of your life to reassure all your positivity."_

_"I'll pass."_

"Texas and I are on the freeway heading east," Oregon responds next.

 _"And who has the package?_ "

"We do."

_"Copy that, rendezvous with the carrier in ten miles. Washington and I are right behind you."_

"Roger."

As they approach the half mile marker, shadows dart high overhead. Propeller blades slice through the sky as military helicopters diverge onto the freeway from several different directions, and with them come federal police vehicles that roar onto the highway from every passing exit. "Please don't tell me those are the cops," Oregon groans, adjusting his mirror to give himself a better angle of the commotion behind them. A sniper bullet screams through the air and rams through his hand, shattering the mirror on impact. Oregon cries out, reflexively brings the wound to his chest.

The mission is jeopardized, just like that.

"Shit!" Texas exclaims as she veers the jeep in front of a transport truck to use as a temporary shield from the follow-up shots. "Oregon, you alright?"

"Dandy," he hisses bitterly. The bullet expels from his hand when the flesh rejects the foreign object before it promptly begins to reform its damaged tissue. "Bastard's got fantastic aim to miss my plating!"

**"THIS IS THE PCPD! PULL OVER NOW OR WE'LL BE FORCED TO TAKE LETHAL MEASURES!"**

"Stall them! I'll get us out of here!"

Oregon waits until he can operate his hand again before he retrieves his sniper rifle from behind his seat. He leans into the leather padding as support, lining the scope up with the closest chopper in his sight. Then he fires, but his mark goes unexpectedly wide. Another several shots miss before they enter an express tunnel, so he readjusts the scope to focus on the vehicles closing in behind them. "Hey, learn to drive! I can't get a steady shot!"

"I've seen your shooting scores, you just suck!"

"Fine, then why don't _you_ shoot and _I'll_ drive?!"

"Use the Gatling!"

"I'm fine!"

"Just do something!"

He mimics her childishly before climbing carefully into the trunk to grab hold of the Gatling gun. A series of bullets skim the plating of his armor, deflecting off the other cars around him or going too wide and impacting nothing of particular importance. He fires back, and once again, hits nothing that he aims for. Instead he positions the nose towards the pavement and pumps it with lead until he blows out the first vehicle's tires, sending them careening onto their side and into a barrel roll. Another police car smashes into their underbelly.

Two of the pursuit vehicles steer around the collision. The left car's passenger fires at Oregon who ducks and blindly sets off another line of bullets that, luckily, punch through the windshield and mow down the officer driving. The vehicle crashes into a semi in the oncoming traffic lane.

"Nice shot!" Texas remarks.

As they rocket out of the tunnel and back up into the sunlight, another jeep launches off the overpass crossing above. It slams into the shoulder lane with such fervor Washington is nearly thrown from the passenger seat on the rebounding jolt. "Jesus Lord above, Carolina! Take it easy!"

"Shut up and shoot!"

Washington swings around the grenade launcher he had found in the trunk when they previously stole the vehicle from the building's lot. He aims at the closest police car from over the seat, pulls back the trigger; the officer swerves easily out of the way and the explosive detonates when it impacts the road, flipping over a pedestrian van. The helicopters tagging them from above counter with a hail of bullets that rip apart the asphalt like eating through paper, catching on one of their back wheels, then on the hood of the engine.

"We're bailing!" Carolina orders, rising in her seat. She uses her hook shot to latch onto the underside of one of the choppers and reels into the air, leaving Washington to find his own way out.

He immediately jumps from the jeep, landing on the front end of Texas's ride. The warthog spins out of control and rams into the dividers on the side of the highway. With his grasp on the window guards he leans with Texas's motions as she glides through the traffic in attempt to gain more ground. The bullets firing from the trio of PCPD choppers strike the pavement on either of her sides, nearly taking out the vehicles struggling to divert course out of their path.

"I really, _really_ hate high-speed chases!" Wash whines into his intercom.

Oregon utilizes his Gatling gun to pierce the thick hide of the nearest helicopter, ripping through their main engine – it immediately explodes when the inner punctured gas line is hit with several bullets, sparking a fire that consumes the hawk in an intense blaze. Pieces of debris erupt outwards, engulfing the highway below in an inferno and sending shards of metal scattering in every direction. The blast rocks the jeep but Texas manages to steer them behind a wider pick-up truck as cover from the heat.

Carolina, at the same time, clings to the lower leg of the helicopter she's hitched to so the shockwaves don't knock her from her perch. The pilot rapidly ascends into the sky to avoid the fury of debris. Carolina seizes their distraction as her opportunity and hefts herself up into the main body, grabbing the sniper by the rear straps of his vest. She throws him backwards into the air, down to the freeway.

His body is rammed through by an oncoming transport truck.

"Nice one!" Oregon calls through the intercom, giving her a thumbs-up despite being barely visible from the angle.

Carolina passively ignores him, hoisting herself back into the hawk. She whips out her combat knife from the holster on her hip and drives it deep into the pilot's back; from Oregon's position he witnesses the helicopter pitch into a downwards spiral, colliding head-first with the other chopper.

"Carolina!"

"I'm fine!" She snaps back as she leaps from the erupting helicopter and latches onto Texas's jeep with her hook shot. It reels her forward with enough speed to get her a solid distance away from the initial blast, but she's too far to land in the flat with Oregon. Instead she uses the inertia to activate her sonic drive – when her boots touch the pavement she jettisons forward, streamlining along the center of the path marked by yellow bands. She catches up to pace alongside the rear bed in mere seconds.

Oregon offers out his hand, which she gladly accepts, and he hauls her up onto the jeep. "Told you I'm fine," she says, knocking knuckles with him when he makes the gesture. Despite the adrenaline coursing through her veins she maintains her level-headed tone, which Oregon seems to admire because he simply nods his head.

"We're almost there!" Wash announces, setting himself into the passenger seat. "Just another half mile and we'll-"

Another federal vehicle courses up behind them easily and clips the edge of the jeep in a PIT maneuver that's just enough to send them tipping right over. Texas tries to stabilize the car by steering it into a drift, but the tires catch on the road. It careens into a roll that ejects all four riders from their places in synch; they're sent sailing over the edge of the overpass at its curve. Carolina grabs for the briefcase that tumbles in her wake, but to her immediate dismay, it catches on the railing.

_**NO!** _

And they fall.

The carrier rises up from below them as if by some saving grace, catching the soldiers on its roof; then rockets into the sky, oblivious to the police officers now converging on the area with more helicopters and vehicles that had just been on their way to join in on the chase – completely unaware of the briefcase that is lodged on the side of the highway.

Agent Florida pops open the exit hatch like a whack-a-mole. "Hello! How are my favorite comrades?"

"Fucking pissed!" Carolina shoots back, slamming her fist into the iron-plated canopy. "Damn it, damn it all! The briefcase was in my reach and I couldn't fucking get it!"

"Oh, that's unfortunate. But on the bright side, you're all alive!"

"Not when the Director finds out we failed," Wash replies, crawling towards him. "Ugh, ow. My body hurts…let's get inside."

Florida helps them into the hull before he seals the hatch door and commands the pilot to steer them back to the base. Inside the main pit, Carolina tosses her helmet across the cabin and screams, nearly elbowing Washington in the face when he attempts to calm her down. "I'm fucking fine! Just, forget it!"—she collapses into a seat, buries her face in her hands—"Just forget it…please let it go…"

Her anger is comprehensible. She hasn't fucked up on a mission this badly in almost four years, and with a polished record like that, it was sure to lower her score on the board. Oregon figures it might be his fault for setting off the tripwire. Despite decapitating the CEO of what is now the ruins of IreonCorps, and leaving its leading position as manufacturer of naval technologies up for grabs, he doubts that'll make up for how fucked to hell the mission is because he chose to blatantly ignore Washington's warning.

"Shit."

Oregon gazes at Texas, whose breath hitches a little when the plane shifts. "Hey, are you okay? You're looking a little unstable."

"Just the adrenaline," she says hesitantly, "although…would you mind looking at this and telling me if it's bad?" She gyrates to show him her back, where an impressive piece of metal from a helicopter blade is pierced into the flesh above her left hip. "Cause I think I've lost feeling and I don't-"

She loses consciousness.

"Shit, Tex!" Oregon catches her against him, guiding her limp form to the floor. He sweeps off her helmet, pats her cheek to keep her awake. "Hey, Tex – TEX! _TEXAS!"_

Her mind is going black.

_"Allison!"_


	2. Mission Two: There's no I in Team

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which agent Oregon has AI problems.

   

   

   

"In the span of one hour after deployment, you managed to destroy an entire building on what was supposed to be a secret ops mission, were nearly captured by the police in yet another highway pursuit, and then you still, somehow, managed to let the briefcase be repossessed? And on top of it, your idiocy has resulted in the severe incapacitation of my top agent." Washington's impression of the Director is unnervingly accurate by text-book definition, down to the very accent, which makes Carolina that much more anxious to attend the follow-up briefing. He marches across the room again, wearing a path into the floor in the wake of all his pacing. "I not only expected you to do better, I expected _results_!"

"It might be a bit of a long shot to admit that I messed up," Oregon speaks up. Every soldier present glares at him simultaneously. "…Just a bit."

Carolina scoffs bitterly, crossing her arms back against her chest and leaning into the wall. "You're goddamn right it was your fault, Oregon. We snuck in successfully, but you just _had_ to go and blow everything to Hell."

Oregon thinks back to Texas in the infirmary ward, fast asleep on her stomach on the bed, a binder supporting her chest and shoulders to keep any other kind of material from bothering her castration. She's heavily sedated to ease the pain in her back. There's a jagged slice running from the frills of her lower ribs to the peak of her hip that was stitched together successfully, but it's swollen with irritation and potential infection despite the antibiotics pumping through her system from the IVs. It might take a long while for her to return to combat.

He doesn't want to admit that there's guilt gnawing on his bones.

Injuries are fairly unavoidable in this job, and in a way, he hadn't directly caused Tex's current distress. Perhaps, however, if he had obeyed orders and if he hadn't so stubbornly ignored Washington's warning, or maybe if he hadn't deployed into a mission that clearly never required his assistance, they could have avoided the highway chase altogether.

But that could be the guilt talking, who knows.

"We all made it out though," Florida pipes up, noticing the obvious tension in the atmosphere. His attempt at alleviating it, however, backfires immediately because Carolina casts him a glare that could turn a man to a puddle of piss. She's clearly not in the mood to deal with his goddamn uppity personality; understandable given the dire seriousness of the situation.

Washington continues to pace obsessively. At some point he sweeps off his helmet, kicks it across the room and into the wall. The resulting clatter startles Oregon out of drifting into his inner thoughts. "We're so screwed! I can't believe – Jesus, how did we seriously manage to lose the briefcase at the last goddamn second?"

"What was in it, anyway?" Florida asks, "I never did get a wind of that part of the mission."

"The Director never told us," Carolina mutters in return.

"Speaking of the Director," Wash says grimly, glancing out the briefing room's window into the lobby, "guess who's here."

The Director enters the room with the Counselor in tow and every soldier currently conscious lines up and snaps into attention. They hadn't expected his debriefing so soon, although that voids out the longer wait they had been previous dreading. He doesn't greet them, doesn't nod his head or murmur a sound for a long pause. Instead his lips press into a thin line. With hands folded firmly behind his back, he casts a steely green gaze into Carolina's direction – who lets her eyes drop in shame – and then passes his look over to Oregon.

Moves behind the projection table.

Speaks.

"…You blew up IreonCorps."

"Our apologies sir," Wash replies, but immediately shuts himself up when the Director spears him with a resentful glare that could freeze hell over in a heartbeat.

"You were almost captured by the police, one of my best agents is now in a coma, you lost the briefcase to the feds"—he tenses, his voice rising a pitch—"and then you still had the audacity to show your faces in my facility!" There's a terse silence that suffocates every Freelancer in the room. Oregon isn't particularly bothered, knows that the despair passes by the next day; he's subsumed by the guilt however. And that's what redirects his stare to the wall. To avoid looking at them. Any of them. "I am not angry," the Director adds with a tone as sour as the rest of his lecture, because he's lying to them and he's _definitely_ angry, "I am just very, very disappointed in each and every one of you."

The leader board updates. Carolina moves up a point, Texas shifts several decimals, but other than that, not much changes.

Oregon clears his throat, reaches into his back pocket. "So even though we did fuck that mission sideways, I took the liberty of stealing the briefcase's contents. You know, just so I could get the points."

Every set of eyes in the room dart over to him in surprise.

"You have the chip?" the Director retorts, clearly taken aback, exchanging a bewildered look with the Counselor.

"Yeah. I was going to give it to you when you walked in, but then you got scary." Oregon passes over the black microchip without a second thought, doesn't bother to question what's on it that's so important or why it was so tediously guarded. He just does as they all do, and gives it up. "Hope this makes up for all the shit we did."

The Director glances at the soldiers, at the chip. "Job well done, agent Oregon. Consider this your first step up the ladder." He pockets the item and his stoic expression returns with ease, abandoning the scowl that was turning the room to dust and ice. "I'll be sure to have the Counselor update the board. You are all dismissed."

As the soldiers saunter out the door, Oregon hears Carolina huff behind him. "You son of a bitch."

* * *

_The room is vacant and cold. There's a machine that sits across the way, a projection platform housing an assortment of little animated soldiers that seem to operate in unit yet behave as individuals with imperfect personalities. The green one runs through random facts that are disconnected albeit brilliant, the gray one hisses at the others that get too close to his personal space, the light blue one remains silent and huddles in a corner, the purple- with a crimson undertone- one bounces idly in place like a child on a holiday morning, the gold and sapphire ones elegantly rotate around each other like twin stars. A silver-blue one with plain details is poised by the edge beside one that, for some reason, is on fire. And then there's a single black unit with no distinct shape that tries to materialize in the background, forming little more than a hazy cloud._

_They haven't stopped looking at him since he first awoke in this ward._

_"Who are you?" the purple soldier questions._

_He stares down at his hands, at the light blue armor he doesn't quite recall adorning. "…I'm Oregon."_

_"Hello Oregon," they recite in unison._

_He sits himself upright on the featureless bed and focuses his full attention on the others. They're so vividly alive in such a lain setting he almost considers this to be a dream. "Who are all of you?"_

_"We don't know," they respond together again._

_"You don't know?"_

_"We're waiting for the nice man to give us names," the purple entity chirps, swinging his arms back and forth like a child._

_"We are an experiment protocol to assist soldiers out in the field of combat," the green guy says matter-of-factly, "and from the looks of it, you must be one of the specially hired Freelancer agents."_

_"I am – kind of, at least, I hope I am. I signed up for the program and just finished what I think might have been a physical examination." He rubs the back of his neck to ease an ache. "Feels like they used some sedatives and I passed out along the way."_

_"So you are going to be a Freelancer?" the silver one echoes with that computerized accent._

_"Like I said, I hope."_

_"That's cool," the infantine one says after a giggle._

_"Which means there is a chance you will receive one of us in your armor," the burning being states. "I am not certain how we will cope to being outside this room though; we were created from a single being we call Alpha. That is all we have been told. Our primary objectives will be assigned upon our maturity, yet we are unaware of how soon that will be."_

_"Where's Alpha?"_

_"We don't know," sapphire responds quickly, racing around the girth of her mellower counterpart._

_"So…you're intelligent super computer artificial programs but aren't smart enough to assign yourselves names?"_

_"We were told that they would be assigned to us," green comments again. "We are only following what commands have been given."_

_Oregon rises from the bed, balancing himself on his weary legs. He's tired, drained. Still makes his way over to them. He pulls up a chair to sit before the table, leaning on the edge with his elbows. Although his temples throb he doesn't show it in his features, but they seem to notice because they tilt their heads at him, observing the way his pulse races and his skull leans forward on the support of his arms. "In that case, maybe I should name you. It'll make it a whole hell of a lot easier on me."_

_"I'd like that," sapphire replies._

_"But we should not," green interjects, "we were firmly told that the Director would name us."_

_"Then he can rename you. But I'd like to address you by something other than color." He peers at each of them, dividing his rapid attention evenly. "How about I give you names similar to Alpha? Would you like that?"_

_"Very much," the childish one says as he claps his hand together blissfully, clearly annoying the gray unit that pushes him away with jejune spite._

_"Come closer." The projections glide up to him, except for the light blue one that remains tucked against the wall, and teeter on the edge of the platform. "Okay, that's better. Let's go in order." He turns pointedly to the unit that is a hovering mass of undefined features. "What's this one doing?"_

_The soldiers face the blackened figure. "She was made through a process hiccup," the blazing man informs him, "she never had a chance to fully develop and take shape. She was the first of us. The Counselor speculated that she could form once she matures."_

_"She's Beta."_

_The obsidian entity shudders with might be content, but she doesn't respond to the command._

_"You're Delta," he adds, gesturing to the emerald soldier and decidedly sweeping over to the twins. "You two will be Eta"—he points to the gold one, then crosses over to the sapphire one—"and Iota." His finger turns on the smaller one, earning a giggle. "You'll be Theta. The weird one on fire can be Sigma. And the glitchy one is Gamma."_

_"Give me something dangerous," the bitter gray one seethes._

_"Uhm…Omega."_

_"I like it."_

_"Fuck yeah?"_

_"Fuck yeah."_

_"You shouldn't swear," Theta remarks, receives a hiss from the malicious older brother._

_Oregon gestures to the one huddled in the corner. "How about that guy?"_

_"He has not spoken a word to us since he was born," Delta says. "We have tried several hundred languages, but he does not respond to whatever we attempt in order to get his response. Occasionally, however, he will hum a song that he picks up from the outside."_

_"Then I'll call him Epsilon."_

_This time the unit turns to face him. It doesn't speak, only stares._

_"I like my name," Theta remarks. "T-H-A-Y-T-A."_

_"It is T-H-E-T-A," Delta corrects._

_"Oh, right. Sorry. Oh, hey, Oregon?"_

_"Yes?"_

_"Oregon?"_

_What._

**"Agent Oregon?"**

The world converges on him with the malice of raging rivers, collapsing like universes, tumbling out into a barren silence. Muted sounds of a distant engine rumble beneath the unevenly tiled floor at his feet. Then he blinks, then he breathes; glances at himself in the mirror on the desk. The reflection that stares back is unfamiliarly familiar to him, almost entirely surreal, like a memory on the outskirts of a dying mind. Dark circles are defining his mossy eyes. Shit, he needs more sleep. "Huh – what? Sorry, I was just…thinking, got a bit sidetracked. What was the question?"

The Counselor enters something into his tablet. "I asked you what you recall of the AI units."

"Nothing. Haven't met them yet."

"But you did. You left an imprint and that is why we assigned you one before your first day. Of course, I did not expect you to recall much. You were in the training regimen for so long, your memories might still be hazy."

"They're returning, gradually."

"That is good. This means we are making progress with your recovery." Takes more notes, Oregon twitches. "So you do remember meeting them?"

"Vaguely. Barely. I remember the Director being a prick about them identifying with the names."

"He has settled for them."

"Doesn't really fucking matter."

"And as for your assigned AI?"

"Doesn't respond to me. Watch this shit – AI unit Beta sequence activate." The hazy black fog of a program materializes beside him, but there is no response. As always. "Why the hell aren't you listening to me?" he seethes, swatting at her. His hand phases right through and she shudders, a recoil that stings the back of his neck.

"You were paired with Beta because of her particularly stubborn personality," the Counselor responds matter-of-factly, gingerly gesturing to the smoking mass above Oregon's shoulder, "and your own knack for coercing people into doing things they would much rather avoid getting involved with. I assure you, she will come around."

"Doubt it. She doesn't even have the common courtesy to take a shape." He offers out his palm and she situates herself on the perch of his hand, emits a low murmur. "I've tried showing her images of soldiers and people and at some point settled for animals – by the way, did you know that a giraffe is a real creature? Like how fucked up in that?"—the Counselor blinks at him emotionlessly—"but all she did was copy the information to her memory. I don't know if she's even capable of a form."

"Noted." The Counselor deliberately switches topics and flips through his tablet, popping open the survey chart located under Oregon's file, right below his name. "May I conduct our rating portion of the session?"

"Uh, fuck it. Sure."

As if sensing his boredom, the door to the room slides open and a familiar cobalt helmet pops inside, followed by a broad arm wave. "Hey-o!"

Oregon swerves in the chair, mildly startled by the abrupt interruption. Beta registers the stimulation in his nerves and automatically disappears. "What the – what the hell are you doing, Florida?"

"Didn't mean to bother you fellas, but the Freelancers are gathering for some AI training exercises downstairs, and everybody's coming to watch. Bit of a family activity, if you will! Since Wyoming and South got their AIs implanted just this morning, the Director's having them square off. Care to join me?"

Oregon rises thankfully to his feet, glances at the Counselor. "Do you care if we cut this short?"

"Of course not. Keep in mind, you are scheduled again for next week."

The Freelancer pops on his helmet, doesn't bother to look back. "Uh, yeah, whatever. Coming Florida."

   

   

   

   

 

Most of the Freelancers from every faction are present in the room, including the beta soldiers Delaware, Rhode Island, Nebraska, and Virginia. Oregon rarely sees them outside of the mess hall or in passing; they typically provide backup on large-scale operations but aren't yet professional enough to earn a spot in the AI implantation program. Delaware, in an intense crimson armor, easily chats up CT and Maine, while Rhodes in the pallid yellow keeps quiet in the corner of the room. Virginia adorns a bright pink suit with a unique pattern of purple stars hand-painted by hers truly, matching her hyperactive personality like a warning sign, and presses her face to the viewing window in awe. Light green Nebraska doesn't seem genuinely concerned for what's occurring so he occupies himself with cleaning the thin layer of dust on the control panel with a rag.

"So you're telling me there isn't someone waiting for you to propose back home?" Oregon drones on from the previous conversation when they enter the room, and Florida shakes his head. "Not even some kind of romantic interest at like, the coffee shop or something?"

"No sir. I don't get that way when it comes to the mushy-gushy stuff. Never have, doubt I ever will."

"Look who showed up finally," Virginia says as she prances over to him, patting Oregon on the back. "You just missed the training regimen!"

"Again?" Oregon utters in defeat.

"I forgot you never got to see the AIs in action," Carolina remarks from her spot near the window, keeping her shoulder nearly pressed against Wash at her side. It's only then that he notices that York is the only Freelancer not currently in attendance, because he's learned to never count Texas when she never shows up to anything.

"No?" North retorts quizzically, trekking over to them with haste. "That's not right, you should get to know the units and their capabilities in the field! Have you met my AI yet?"

Oregon shrugs. "Don't think so."

North taps his helmet once and as if recognizing the wordless code, Theta materializes with an eager jump. _"Hiya North!"_

"Hello Theta. I wanted you to meet agent Oregon."

Theta appears beside the opposing Freelancer in blue, leans in too close to his face. _"Oh, it's you again! You're the nice man."_

"You're confused," North Dakota amends, "you've never met him before."

But Theta shakes his head. _"Nope, that's Oregon. I know him when I see him. You can ask any of my other siblings, if you want; they'll recall him too."_

Oregon feels exposed under the curious gazes attentively turning in his direction. He clears his throat, steadies his tremulous voice. "Have we…met before?"

_"A while ago; right after I was born, remember? You named us."_

"Us?"

_"The others AIs."_

Oregon passes through his memories and barely recalls such an event. The room is vacant and cold. They haven't stopped staring at him since he first woke up. "Oh, right, I remember that now. The Director chewed me out about it for three whole fucking days."

"So you have met them," Carolina figures, her tone uneasily frigid.

Oregon shrugs again by habit, focuses on the field that's being carefully reset by FILSS despite South lingering in the arena. "When I first signed up for the Project I had to undergo some rigorous tests involving the armor enhancements to see if I could handle the after-effects. Half the time I was sedated from overstimulation. At some point I was in a ward with the AIs and they had just been born – according to them, at least."

Rhodes speaks up suddenly. He's never heard from her before and is more than surprised to learn that he can't distinguish the tone between masculine or feminine, decides to go with neither. "That would have been four months ago, you know. Why did your training take so long?"

"They were testing out some intense shit. On the bright side, I passed."

CT decides to break the tension, glancing at the screen as the roster moves. "Agent Oregon is scheduled to go on in ten."

"I am?"

Florida chuckles lightheartedly. "Your AI is supposed to keep you informed, you know."

"My AI is also supposed to listen to me." He crosses his arms, lets his tone fall flat. "I'll revisit the topic when that happens."

"My sister's probably going to kill you if you don't use the AI," North relays with a smile in his voice.

Bothered by his comment, Oregon storms towards the door, partially to leave such a stuffy room but mainly because death seems like a viable option in this environment. "Fuck off, I can handle this shit _without_ an AI!"

"He's gonna die," Delaware remarks, pressing her fists to her hips. "Anyone got a snack?"

Oregon passes Wyoming halfway down the hall, notes the scuffs and distinct splatter of blood on the silvery-white chest piece, and the matching AI hovering attentively over his shoulder. "Oh, agent Oregon!" Wyoming chimes as they cross. "You just missed a jolly good session. Would you like to meet Gamma?"

"We've met," Oregon deadpans.

Gamma glitches slightly. _"Hello Oregon. It has been a very long time."_

"Like, four months. Or something."

"Tell him a joke," Wyoming remarks, laughing in spite of nothing being funny. "Oh, he has the best knock knock jokes! I simply adore them!"

_"Why didn't Kelly play with her friends?"_ Gamma starts.

Oregon exhales an exasperated sigh. "Why?"

_"She was dead."_

"The fuck?"

_"Knock knock."_

"…Who's there?"

_"Kelly. Get the shotgun."_

Wyoming buckles over laughing hysterically, slapping at his knee. "The morbid ones are the best! Good show, chap!"

_"I pride myself on my achievements."_

Oregon rolls his eyes. "Right, hilarious. Whatever. I'm busy."

"Do come back soon! We've got lots of jokes!"

"This place is a joke," Oregon mutters under his breath, disappearing down the hall.

   

   

   

   

   

South takes the other side of the field just as Oregon enters. There's a familiar sparkle of gold from Eta when she appears over her partner's shoulder and the AI focuses intently on the opposing Freelancer, clearly entranced by his familiarity to her. She murmurs approvingly to South who merely leans down to wrap her slender fingers around the handles of the Chaingun Turret gun. This weapon in particular has been stripped of real bullets and replaced with the armor-locking foam pellets utilized for training, which he's been explicitly told hurts like a bitch.

_"Agent Oregon, use your AI."_

The voice on the intercom belongs to the Director, most likely from the safety of his personal observatory booth that he'll only use to avoid crowded spaces. Oregon shakes his head at that, taps his helmet. "She doesn't respond to me," he calls back. "Never has!"

_"In a real combat situation, you would be killed. So I suggest you learn to cooperate with it."_

Fuck.

_"Let the training session commence, FILSS."_

Double fuck. A series of pillars rise from the floor on either side to allow him ample coverage for the session. Behind him the weapons panel sprouts up to offer him a single handgun with four reloadable clips, and he takes a quick moment to load the dinky penis pistol with ammo. South, however, clearly has the advantage, and it almost agitates him how the Director finds this necessary.

_"ROUND 1 START,"_ FILSS declares, displaying a 0/0 score on the upper board.

This is gonna fucking suck.

South sets the Gatling gun against her hip and fires, bullets punching into the floor in a linear direction towards Oregon. "Beta!" He snaps, dodging to the right so an explosion of violet foam skims the side of his leg. The pillar offers defense from the remaining rounds. Despite his increase in distress, the AI doesn't materialize. "Oh, this is un-fucking-believable! Respond to me, dammit!"

He peers around the corner – and receives a bullet to the face. Even at an odd angle South has the honed accuracy expected of every Freelancer, meeting her mark like he's a brick wall. Pain flashes through his skull, solidifies the functions in his helmet. Everything resonates with an emotion similar to terror and as he collapses, clawing at his face, yelling about the burn that leaves a thick trail of fire in his nervous system, something flashes across his mind, obtrusive lights and drills and circuits and algebraic formulas, memories of a red-headed child no older than two.

_"POINT 1, SOUTH."_

A jolt of energy surges through his suit. The foam detaches easily, breaks apart at the seams and crumbles into dust. He gives himself a moment to recover from the initial numbing shock— _what was that?_ —before setting up near the table again.

"Goddammit Beta I need you," he utters to the AI, watching Eta twirling around her partner.

Finally she appears, the obscure entity like a long-forgotten memory. " _I recognized your distress. I'm here now."_

"What the hell took you so long?!"

_"I was subsumed by your memories from earlier. It takes me a while to recollect myself when so much of you is missing…makes it difficult to link up with your neural pathways."_

"Bullshit."

_"A strong connection between unit and Freelancer is imperative to make cooperation work at its peak efficiency."_

Oregon rolls his eyes skyward. "Fine, fine! Whatever. Tell me what I'm up against."

Beta scans the room, analyzes the data, forms a conclusion and Oregon only manages to blink once. Then suddenly, without any prior warning, she idly transforms into a soldier in black armor with a silver visor, body emitting a constant miniscule plume of obsidian smoke. And unnervingly enough, she reminds him of Texas. _"Agent South Dakota. Physical 9 of 10, mental 5.5 of 10, intelligence 8 of 10, teamwork 5 of 10, weapons skill 10 of 10. Equipped with a bubble dome and installed with Artificial Intelligence Program Unit Eta."_

"Bubble dome thing, we need that."

_"Affirmative. Enhancement replicated. 30 seconds until failure of augmentation."_

_"ROUND 2 START."_

South fires again, easing onto the trigger the same as before, clearly giving him an opportune chance to make a different move. Beta reacts on instinct. Fragments of the dome shield appear in bloom, reflecting the bullets with ease.

"How'd you get that?!" South exclaims, her entire posture switching to a rigid tension. "Those enhancements are exclusive to me and North!"

Beta reserves the remaining power and drops the shields just as Oregon dives behind a different pillar, pressing his back to the smoothed stone face. "It's my enhancement," he returns quickly into the intercom. "Replication is what I was equipped with! Beta temporarily copies armor enhancements to my system, then replicates them!"

"That sounds like some kind of goddamn cheating."

Bullets puncture the structure behind him, rocking it nearly off its hinges.

"I need to get in close," Oregon mutters. "Land a solid shot..."

Beta scans him with a blip. _"Agent Oregon. Physical 7.5 of 10, mental 8 of 10, intelligence 8 of 10, teamwork 6.5 of 10, weapons skill 0 of 10."_

"Fuck off. I'm not _that_ bad!"

_"You don't need me to fight back,"_ she informs him promptly. _"I'm only here to assist in what you are already capable of doing. You're perfectly able to counter fire with fire."_

Oregon's mind reels with thoughts that permeate with tactics, yet Beta sorts through them faster than he can manage to conjure them up. "I have an idea. What's the augmentation remainder?"

_"15 seconds."_

"Adjust my accuracy," he orders, "make sure I land a shot. On my mark, protect me. Synch."

_"Synch."_

"Mark!" He rolls out from his safety and breaks into a sprint. Beta throws up blooming spots of the replicated shield to reflect the bullets, and Eta seems to copy the motions because she manipulates South's dome to catch the explosions of Oregon's returning fire. The clouds of violet burst up like frost, consuming the panels with ease while allowing South's bullets through. Neither of them realizes that the foam is obscuring the Freelancer's field of vision, so when Oregon hits the floor and slides between her legs, South doesn't have the reaction time to assess her next move.

He pulls the trigger, his last bullet bursting against the underside of her jaw. Her scream of surprise is cut off by the helmet locking down and nearly collapses against the amplified weight. Oregon hits the wall back first, sits himself up on his knees.

_"POINT 1, OREGON."_

"We did it!" He exclaims, raises his hand to his AI unit. "Up high B!"

_"No."_

In the private booth high above, the Director watches the events unfold with a triumphant smirk settling across his features. "This is what I wanted," he remarks to the Counselor two paces behind him, "but it is still not enough. He has awakened one and not the other, yet I will accept this, for now, as progress."

"Should we send him on another mission, Director?"

"Add him to the roster for the recovery team to find Agent York."

The Counselor hesitates, brings up the order page. "Of course, sir."

* * *

    

   

   

   

   

Elsewhere, at the same time, a Freelancer in pallid gold cranes his neck to observe the tower in the distance. Keeps his sidearm close. "Did my transmission get through, D?"

_"No,"_ the emerald soldier on his shoulder replies. _"The interference is too drastic. I doubt we will be able to reach them until that tower is destroyed."_

"Shit. I have to warn them"—he turns his attention to the darkness in the forest leading up to the mysterious structure—"before it's too late."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes on Beta:  
> Since this is a heavily separated AU, Beta has nothing to do with Allison. Beta is based on the idea that Allison was replicated, however, so I figured it would have been interesting if she took the vague form of Tex for nostalgia's sake.


	3. Mission Three: York of the Flies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which York is missing and the plot somehow thickens.

    

    

   

In the wake of twilight hours a Freelancer is pallid yellow armor perches on the edge of the seat, the only breathing soul in the otherwise unoccupied study room. Agent Rhodes plays the audio recording again, for the fourth or fifth or fifteenth time. She shouldn't be doing this, shouldn't be here, playing this encrypted file. But she knows that there's something she's missing. Project Freelancer has never been a commendable opportunity but it's shadiness hasn't bothered her yet; at least, not up until she uncovered this document while sneaking through the Commissioner's office last week.

_"Mr. Commissioner, let me begin by explaining – zzzt – mos – pr – th – this drastic measure is only being taken to ensure the survival of Pro – Free – Reela – You need not worry about the soldier… he's nameless – w – fit right in with the rest of the program… F – zzzt – work with Alpha personally. Some mem – loss in order, altercations should be made to minimize risks – need wor – zzt – …Signing off, Dr. – ard – Urch – zztt…"_

The Director has been keeping tabs on what audio emails are stored in the government's database. This one bothered him enough to send an agent to erase its existence.

Rewind. _"You need not worry about the soldier… he's nameless – w – fit right in with the rest of the program… F – zzzt – work with Alpha personally."_ Stop.

_What is he talking about?_

Rhodes grasps the edge of the panel as the anxiety pumps her gut with molten steel.

_Who is Alpha?_

* * *

   

    

    

    

    

Bullets ricochet off the walls and punch into the floor, collapsing into themselves against the force. Texas steps on crumpled casings when she swiftly paces across the length of the training room. Oregon mutters an assortment of swears as he reloads his tenth clip into the sniper rifle, takes aim at the holographic bullseye floating across the lane, and fires. Misses. Continues to fire. Continues to miss. Beta materializes in a plume of smoke, hovers several inches off his right shoulder, remains eerily silent as he empties the rest of the clip on the target board and quite literally misses the triple rings each and every time.

"Goddamn _shit_. I don't remember being this bad!"

_"If you adorn your helmet I can adjust your accuracy for you."_

Oregon runs his fingers through is shaggy hair in frustration, shakes his head. "Don't bother."

Omega appears beside his sister, jostling Oregon out of his trance and alerting him to Tex's presence. He glimpses at her over his shoulder as she poises herself within a safe distance. Her silken hair is tumbling down her back in a loose ponytail, her eyes glimmer to contrast her blanked expression. He turns his attention to the target again and greets her with a passive tone, "Oh, hi Tex. How're you feeling?"

"Alright, for what it's worth. I'm scheduled to return to the field within the week."

"That's good. Or whatever. Depends on if you want to return to this crazy job."

"Not like I have a different one."

Small talk. He loses interest in her and ejects the clip, grabs another off the table to his left and reloads. Goes with the motion.

Tex approaches him cautiously as his next shot bounces off the wall on an angle and impacts the floor halfway across the room. She gently clasps his shoulder guards, leans towards his ear. "You're too tense. You need to relax here"—she presses her hand to his back, the other to his chest—"and here." Her fingers slide delicately along the contours of his armor, finding the thick stock of the rifle. Firmly pushes it up into the socket of his shoulder. "This needs to be here, you had it too low."

He becomes acutely aware of how close she is to him. She radiates with heat; her paced breathing is faintly audible over his rushing blood slamming into his ears. And her chest, pressed pliantly to his back, allows him to feel the pulse of her heart from deep in her rib cage even through the thickness of the obsidian armor. They've never been this close, even when sparring, when she's pinned him down and made him beg for mercy to spare his arms.

He leans into her to shift his weight to the center, lines up with the holographic target.

"And with the rifle, you have to breathe."

Which is a little difficult when she's so goddamn _close_.

He exhales, pulls the trigger. The bullet pierces through the bullseye and crumples easily against the rear wall, the way it had been designed to. Oregon immediately barks a laugh. "Fuck yeah, did you see that?!"

Omega scoffs, earns a glare from Beta.

"There," Tex relents, "now you can get that weapons score up."

"Okay but I'm also not that bad."

"The last ten clips of ammo beg to differ."

He turns to face her to make his comeback but his words immediately fail to meet his throat. She's particularly lovely when she smiles back at him, is lovely all the time, actually – when her eyes are heavy after missions, when her hair is messed up from her helmet, when she's leaving bruises during sparring and even when she's antagonizing him to let off steam. He almost laments in the idea that she could be flawless through her miniscule imperfections, every scar and every mark.

His gaze wanders quizzically over hers, curious by nature, following the unique curve of her cheek to her slender jaw, up to the lower plush of her lips. She's watching him intently, possibly leaning in, maybe it's just his imagination.

"Not that it matters," he finally replies as he moves his eyes back to the target, fitting the rifle against his shoulder once more.

Tex hums at that, almost sounds disappointed, and ventures over to the ammunition table. She brushes aside the remaining clips to perch on the edge in place of a seat, takes an interest in how he unloads the rest of the clip into the bullseye with ease. "So what are you doing in here?" she asks listlessly, tossing him a fresh clip to slap into his rifle when he ejects the other. "Don't you have a mission soon?"

"Not for another hour," Beta informs them. "Roll call for deployment is in thirty minutes."

Oregon abandons his victory round. "Ah, shit, that's right. I only came to squeeze in some practice."

"Are you still upset over South kicking your ass in training yesterday?"

"…Shut up."

Tex crosses one leg over the other, almost sounds like she's flirting with him by the purring in her response. "Well, you have a little more time. You can practice with me."

"Wait, wait wait." He abruptly whirls around to face her, rolls his hand to mimic a rewinding tape. "Back up."

"What?"

"Say it. Say time."

"Tahyme."

"Time."

_"Tahyme."_

He exchanges a look with Beta before returning his attention to Texas. Grins. "That's just adorable."

"Jackass," she shoots back, hopping off the platform. Omega fades on instinct, knows she's going to take her exit and doesn't bother to bid his sister farewell. "Just for that, I'm leaving. Try not to shoot yourself in the foot."

As she tromps out the door, pretending she isn't fazed by his resounding jeers, he laughs.

"Come back next _tahyme_ Tex, we'll miss you!"

* * *

     

      

     

     

   

Four Seven Niner is unsettled – to say the least – by how unnervingly quiet it is in the back of her plane. Usually she's saddled with several agents at once who spend a majority of the flight jabbering about something of particular unimportance. Yet today is odd because, unlike the others, the new guy stares absently at the ceiling and displays no interest in so much as acquainting himself with her. North Dakota and South Dakota don't appear to be as displaced about it as she is because they've fallen asleep against each other, still exhausted from the retrieval mission they were deployed on yesterday.

She's not accustomed to the silence. Maybe she just hates having time to reflect.

She knows only the basics about today's task: that York is missing, deployed to an island location on a tropical planet, which is being utilized for the conduction of military weaponry tests for naval forces. Basically, flying stealth mode makes the trip longer and getting caught could warrant her plane getting shot out of the sky. All because York never reported back.

She exhales, checks her monitors. They're still a solid few minutes away from the landing point, an unmapped, unmarked place that apparently messed with the Mother of Invention's sensors when the Director attempted to get a bird's eye view from orbit. The safest approach was to deploy a carrier from partway across the globe and get the soldiers in as secretively as possible, an unfortunately three-hour long ride.

Oregon saunters up to her and seats himself in the co-pilot's chair, exhaling a sigh of relief now that he's gotten to stretch his legs. "Hey, how much longer? My back's freaking killing me."

"Almost there."

At least he's talking. Oregon checks the secondary monitors, tabs through the minute details of the mission's synched pages on the left screen. She figures he's doing a final sweep to pass through some boredom.

"So," she starts, glimpsing briefly in his direction, "you're Oregon, right? We haven't officially met."

He shrugs passively. "No surprise there. The Director's barely let me go on any major missions, and you seem to be the choice pilot for every run."

"Now that you mention it, I am pretty damn good at what I do."

"Well, that's reassuring at least."

"I like to tell people I get my skills from my father, but bless his soul he was never a pilot – just a worried old Helljumper with a shotgun." She eases on the throttle to decrease the carrier's velocity. "Still, with a legacy like that, you've gotta inherit the badass genes or get offed by nature."

Oregon folds his arms on the dash, gazes out into the endless horizon. "Pick brains or brawn or both."

"Exactly. And I've got both."

"Gave up modesty to make room, apparently."

479er scoffs, raises her shoulders casually. "My point is that you don't have to worry, alright? I've got you covered." Her monitor beeps. She almost sighs at the interruption and checks her screen, noting the way it glitches from an outside interference, before pulling back on her throttles more firmly. "Alright, wake 'em up, we're here."

"We are," Oregon mutters, glancing down at the muted shores of the omnipotent island, "let's hope York is too."

    

     

    

    

    

"He's dead," Oregon says with blatant disregard for North's feelings, "and if he isn't, he's been captured and he'll be dead by the time we find him."

The sun is descending behind the horizon when South finally returns from the scout of the outer island and North treks out of his venture through the forest, meeting up with Oregon on the beach. "That's no way to think," North replies sternly.

South glances at the setting sun. "It's almost like this island is deserted. And even if it isn't, there's no way for me to tell because I can't get a reading on my motion sensors."

"You try to get into the tower?" Oregon asks North, who shakes his head.

"Couldn't. Whatever it's transmitting started messing with Theta. I think it might be some kind of protective EMP field."

"Do you think York's in there?"

"Not with Delta installed. The field would fry him."

Oregon presses his lips together, gazes off into the distance. "I didn't find anything, either. No signs of anyone being here, no cars or ships or boats. And that stupid tower is interrupting radio communications, so I can't find any other channels."

"So the island's definitely deserted," South concludes, "unless the people who run this place are holed up in that tower, and everyone else who winds up here is clearly meant to get trapped."

"We can't decide that until we figure out how to get into the building."

North glances up at the pillar rising up to kiss the sky, jagged silver and neon lights from activity, looks over at Oregon. "Well, now what? We all have AIs, and only a few more hours left before the carrier makes its return trip. If we don't have York by then we'll have to determine him K.I.A."

Oregon sighs. Dammit. "Well, there's only one option left then. Beta, prepare to eject."

The soldier in black appears with a plume of smoke, giving him a reaffirming nod. _"Uploading, standby."_

"What are you doing?" South asks incredulously.

"I'm going up alone," he remarks as he pops off his helmet. "I'll check it out, maybe try to get York if I can, and report back."

_"Upload complete."_

He reaches in to grab the slot, hesitates. His fingers brush over an unfamiliar port seal that resides just beneath Beta's. He's never noticed it before, given that he's avoided touching Beta's at all to prevent damage, and in hindsight, it almost seems stupid how he's never discovered this before.

_Beta_ , he thinks, knows she can hear him through their synch.

_"I'm here."_

_Why did you never tell me you weren't my only AI planned for installment?_

_"You never asked."_

_Who's the other?_

_"I don't know. Figure it out."_

_Thanks for nothing. Just eject, then. I guess I'll have to let the other guy's base fry._

Beta uploads herself to her slot and slides out with ease. He hands the file card to North, reconnects his helmet and pulls out his pistol. "I'll scout it out, be right back."

"And if you don't return?" South interjects.

"You'd better build a statue in my honor. In fact, start working while I'm gone. I want every detail on point and it has to symbolize my excellence." He glances at the forest, back to them. "I'm not kidding, I expect results."

"Prick."

   

   

   

   

   

The barrier isn't physically seen but Oregon can judge the distance between him and the interference field by the crackling in his radio, in the channel he keeps open between himself and the twins. As he crosses into the threshold, the trees scatter into an open field, the base of the tower. And his radio has been submerged in white noise.

Then he steps through.

Much to his surprise the obnoxious sound is blanked and the anticipated sting on the back of his neck – which he expects from the frying circuit board – doesn't come. His heat-based motion tracker resets, alerts him to two heat signatures on the other end of the tower moving in his direction.

It was never an EMP field at all. He considers returning to the Dakotas, but after a moment decides he's better off without them. At least this way he can guarantee they won't stick their noses into his mission.

He moves swiftly, ducking behind a parked warthog as the guards walk into view from around the base of the tower. They stand at the front of the sealed door, chatting idly about something irrelevant to their job, about what they'll do when they get time to return home. Their Insurrection uniforms are branded boldly, lackeys but still definitely a problem.

"AI unit activate," Oregon mutters, thinking through all the possible units he could have been installed with. The only functioning harvested AIs remaining, from what he can remember, are Iota and Epsilon. And Iota has already been scheduled to become Washington's implant. His unit doesn't respond to his command, requiring its direct address in order to switch on. Guesses based on the logic of the material. "AI unit…Epsilon? Activate."

The soldier in sky blue armor appears, a sniper rifle much like Oregon's situated firmly in his hands, flickering first to life, and then glimpsing up at him with curiosity.

"There you are, bud."

_"Voice sequence replicated. Sup?"_

"I'm surprised to see you, I thought you were in the process in being rated for another agent?"

_"Nope,"_ the AI replies in a tone that sounds like a digitalized recording of Oregon's own voice, both unique yet similar, _"they assigned me to you a long time ago. Why'd you never activate me before?"_

"Because I didn't know."

Epsilon hums with thought. _"Oh, really?"_

"Wait, so did you synch with me yet?"

_"Nah, the Director made it clear that I was to avoid synching. Something about not being compatible with people's memories. Or whatever."_

"Do you function properly without the synch?"

_"I work just fine. Anyway, what can I help you with?"_

Oregon gazes over the door of the vehicle, at the guards now chatting about making their rounds. "Okay, we need to get into the tower, break out York, and complete the assigned mission. I can knock them out if I could just-"

_"Wait, you aren't going to kill them? Like the other Freelancers would?"_

"Why the fuck would I do that?"

_"Bonus points."_

"…That's fair. But right now I need you to get me a map of the building's layout, mark it with the holding cells or, alternatively, try and find the place where York is most likely being kept. Round me up some passcodes while you're at it, and try to disable the security feed. I'll handle the soldiers."

_"On it."_

Epsilon flickers out and a jolt of sapphire light disappears into the control panel near the entrance. The guards notice it, approach the door with curiosity. "Think it was a malfunction?" the first asks, tapping the screen. It flickers but doesn't respond to the sensation. "The barrier's not supposed to bother the electronics."

"Maybe it's just faulty wiring," the second figures.

Oregon rams his shoulder into the side of the vehicle and it skirts along the ground, slamming into the second guard and immediately crushing every bone in his lower body. The first responds by receding from the crash with brisk steps, firing off rifle rounds as he make his way to the safety of the door. Oregon breaks into a sprint, lets the bullets puncture his armor as he rams into the Insurgent, knocking down the gun in the process, and drives his combat knife into the unprotected jugular artery. Blood explodes across the wall. His body hits the door, hands flailing uselessly for the laceration.

Oregon retracts the blade and throws the guard aside, rolls his shoulders as his fractured collar bone amends and his flesh expels the bullet casings. _Nice_.

Epsilon flickers out of the control panel. _"Back! What'd I miss?"_

"Me being an absolute bad ass."

_"So not much."_

Oregon sighs despondently. "Why does no one appreciate my awesomeness?"

_"…Anyway, I've got the master access codes, some blue prints, and the maps. I'm uploading the data to your logs now."_

"Good job bud."

Epsilon scans the control panel and the numbers 11374 roll onto the screen in the passcode slots. The door slides open with a metallic hiss. He appears near the inner frame, nods his head a bit as he speaks. _"The security feed is off but I can't say for how long, they've already realized it's disabled. You'll have to move quickly."_

Oregon brings up the translucent map in his visor, studies the diagram with a single glimpse. "Alright, guide me. Is that red mark York?"

_"It's a cell room on the thirteenth floor. He might be there. I could take a look through their archives."_

"No time right now."

The Freelancer resets his motion tracker as he vaults down the awaiting corridor towards the back hallway. He presses against the wall of the lobby room as it opens into rows of heavy machinery for what might be packaging, gazes around quickly, crosses over towards the stairwell. Across the room he locates the lift and the two soldiers on the descending platform are mere outlines on his tracker map. He takes note of the workers at the machines, twelve bodies in total, none in his vicinity.

He exhales, crosses through the threshold. His scan of the well indicates that he's alone for now so he moves up as swiftly and quietly as one possibly can in a bulky suit of futuristically advanced armor, and none-too-surprisingly, he finds his way to the seventh floor before guards enter into the well through the ninth exit. He ducks into the hallway.

" _This was labeled as the experimentation site,_ " Epsilon relays.

"Experimentation?" Oregon utters in return.

_"There's a lab around the corner."_

Oregon creeps to the end of the corridor, finds that the wall takes a turn and opens up into another hall lined with display windows into the labs. On the right is an unoccupied white room, defined by rows of needles and chemicals and silver slabs, tiles that are distinctly smudged with old blood. To his left, it gets worse.

The bodies on the tables are sliced open, one an individual with every rib and organ displaced, relocated to a tray, and the second hooked to a life-support system despite the tubes laced through the slices in his body and the flesh folded open at his torso. The scientists inside don't notice Oregon and continue to experiment – or whatever they're trying to achieve, scalpels and face masks and the unconscious figure who mumbles in his sedated sleep.

"That's fucking gross. What the hell are they doing?"

_"Do you think one of these guys might be York?"_

Oregon feels his stomach drop, turns back for the stairwell. "Let's hope not."

    

     

    

   

    

The holding cell is a single unit guarded by one soldier who goes down to a simple muffled gunshot to the throat, thanks to the pistol's silencer. Epsilon overrides the overhanging security camera so it permanently faces the wall and blocks its site of the cell, leaving Oregon to tuck the body against the wall and give him a chance to tab through the controls of the cell's panel.

York is sprawled out on the bench inside the prison, snoring audibly. Mumbles Carolina's name under his breath.

"Epsilon," Oregon addresses as he brings up the controls, "before someone shows up, dig me up files from the main frame pertaining to anything with the terms Freelancer and Insurrection."

_"Got it, I'll be back in a second._ " Epsilon flickers out and disappears into the system.

"York!"

The Freelancer in gold snorts as he jolts awake, glances around frantically. "What? I'm up! Give back the lucky charms cereal and I won't shoot!"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

York gazes over at Oregon, raises both arms in triumph. They're handcuffed together at the wrists, which he should have easily picked open but to be honest, Oregon doesn't think York has had experience with the simple stuff. "Hey-hey! Did ya miss me?"

"I'll leave you here."

Oregon taps the confirmation icon and releases the bars housing his friend. They ascend into the ceiling and he greets York as the captured agent makes his swift exit. "Oregon, man, am I glad to see you. I thought you guys forgot about me!"

"Dude, it's been like, a day."

"Which is a week in York time. And technically, three and a half on this planet."

Oregon glances around swiftly, returns his attention to York. "Wait. Where's Delta?"

"He's shut off, the soldiers didn't know about him."

"Good." Oregon pops open the cuffs with the guard's key labelled with York's cell number, discards the ring elsewhere. "Here, take my pistol. It's all I've got."

"Good enough for me."

Oregon ventures across the length of the hall to the end, peers around the corner.

"Speaking of," York continues, rubbing at his wrists and wandering up behind him, "we should get out of here before someone comes looking for me. Their leader – at least, who I think is their leader – mentioned coming by later to grab me."

Oregon scoffs. "I mean, _you_ can leave. I've got more important things to take care of."

"But you found me. Rescue op is a go. Time to return home."

"You're not the reason I'm here."

"And just like that I'm confused."

Epsilon flickers in, appearing like a ghostly apparition between them. _"Alright, I grabbed some interesting material. What do you want first?"_

York gives the hologram a side-long glance. "Uh, who's this?"

"Epsilon, my AI unit."

_"Sup?"_

"I thought-?"

Oregon sighs. "My _other_ AI unit."

"Since when?"

"Long story. Epsilon, how many files did you find with the words I was looking for?"

_"Seven hundred and forty-three."_

"Erase any that don't have the term UNSC."

_"Done. You're down to three-hundred and twelve."_

"How many contain the terms super-soldier, experiment, or Alpha?"

_"Twenty-two."_

"Those are the only ones I want, the rest can go. Now do me a big favor okay?"

_"Sure."_

"Fry the main system and shut this tower down. Make sure their barrier field goes down too. That'll screw them over for a while."

Epsilon hesitates. _"But that runs the risk of shutting off the life support systems in the experimentation ward if they don't have any back-up gen-"_

"I know."

"Experimentation ward?" York echoes.

"I think they _wanted_ the Director to send an agent here," Oregon says, peering ahead. "They know we've been tracking down their bases and they know we're trained professionals worth fifty men. These people are doing some fucked up shit and if they weren't going to kill you for your armor, they were definitely going to keep you alive for something worse."

"…Oregon, what are you talking about? What did you see?"

Doesn't want to think about it. "Epsilon, just do it."

_"On it, I should be able to deactivate everything in about ten or fifteen minutes."_

"Thanks. Meet you at the exit."

Epsilon darts into the outlet, fusing his base with the currents to ride up into the control room. Oregon breaks into a sprint down the corridor, moves with determination and keeps his rifle raised before him. York rushes after him, stays close behind. "Oregon, come on, what happened?"

"I'll tell you later, okay? For now, I've got to finish this mission."

"Alright, you win. At least tell me…if you aren't here to rescue me, what are you doing?"

Oregon presses to a wall when several soldiers jog by on the opposite side, instinctively crosses his arm over York's chest to shove him back. Waits for the troopers to pass before breaking into a jog again. "The Director figured out that this place was controlled by the Insurrection forces, right? So when you didn't return, he enlisted the twins to come find you. He enlisted _me_ to mess with the data they have on Project Freelancer."

"And you just got that data."

"Some of it."

"So we should probably go before this turns into an op to save you instead."

Oregon finds the emergency stairwell just as Epsilon ejects from the panel on the wall. _"Lights are going dark in three minutes. It was faster to force a reset of the system so it can handle itself and erase every file without overloading my processor. The field barrier is disabled by default and will need to be recalibrated in order for them to get it working again, so we have a few hours before they get it running._ "

"Great work."

_"Yeah, you know, I am pretty amazing."_

"Pull up the final files for me."

The twenty even files cross his inner visor like a roulette, confirming and highlighting the terms he had previously selected. The documents are primarily Insurrection write ups about replicating the UNSC's super soldier experiment project, creating something highly classified called Test Subject 14B that has no discernible notes or reference images attached. As he ventures down the material and absorbs every detail presently available he notices that 14B is the "first to remain alive throughout the lengthy trials of mutative experiments" and something about that makes his skin crawl.

"Oregon?"

The files blink off his screen and York is suddenly in front of him, glancing around frantically. He recognizes the thrumming of boot steps approaching their location. "Huh? Oh, right, you need to get going, wait for me near the west entrance. I have to find something on the twelfth floor."

"Want me to come with?"

"No, I'll be okay."

York presses his lips into a thin line, finally breaks the tension with a laugh. "I'm sure there's a lock you'll need help picking. Besides, it's too dangerous to split with the whole building now on alert."

"Alright, fine."

"Let's go then."

Oregon gives York an affirmative nod, but pauses for a moment as his teammate takes point into the darkened stairwell, allowing himself a brief lapse of time to glimpse the unnerving files over once more. What bothers him most about the collection is the final document.

**Who is Alpha?** is typed in broad words across the margin of a completely blank file.

    

    

    

    

   

The tower has gone dark, effectively distracting most of the soldiers in the building from searching for intruders for the time being (or maybe they've already caught on, in which case, he's overstayed his welcome), and Oregon utilizes the flashlight on his helmet as he rifles through the contents of the storage room, digging through the trays of labeled USB disks. The lights will be on soon, once the system finishes resetting, and that means he's running out of time. "You're sure it's in here?" he asks Epsilon who hovers over the box. "I'm not finding it and none of these are in order."

"Keep looking. We shouldn't leave without it."

The guard who had been assigned to watch the room is a corpse at Oregon's feet from a swiftly broken neck, buried under carelessly discarded racks of disks. He tosses the half-empty crate on the body again. Picks up another and digs into that mess too.

York is at the door with Delta, tracking the motions of the soldiers using his sensor.

Epsilon gazes into the trays. _"Right there. 14B. This one is supposed to have all the files that weren't on the mainframe of the same subject."_

Oregon grabs the USB labelled **EX-TS-14B** and rises up, pockets it. "Alright, let's get out of here. I've had my fill of this crazy fucking island."

_"You and me both."_

"We should be clear in a few seconds," York relays, still watching the motion map. "Everyone's moving around kind of frantically because of the outage."

_"They have been alerted of our potential escape."_

"We know that D, thank you."

Epsilon flickers over to Delta when Oregon approaches York. _"Hey, do you really think they kept York alive because they wanted to experiment on him?_ "

"…I don't know what to think."

_"Then what kind of experiment are you alluding to?"_ Delta asks with piqued curiosity.

"I don't know. I honestly don't know what the Insurrection is doing or what the fuck any of this means."

York scoffs humorlessly. "Let's just be glad you showed up. I'd rather not be a science project, thank you very much."

"How are we with those soldiers?"

York briskly checks his map. "They aren't leaving. We can't get out unless we take them down, but then we'll have the whole building converging on us in minutes."

"Too many to take out?"

"Way too many with a pistol. If we play our cards right, maybe we'll got shot several times as a baseline minimum and they won't hit any arteries."

"Plan B." Oregon touches his intercom. "North, South, do you read?"

_"Copy that,"_ North responds, clear as a bell, _"looks like you took the barrier down."_

"Yeah, but now York and I are trapped. Sort of. We really just need you to conjure up a distraction to the east entrance of the building. I'll have Epsilon transfer you my maps." The sky blue AI nods, uploads the prints to their logs through the coordination link.

_"Epsilon?"_

"My AI."

_"But-"_

"My _other_ AI. I'll explain later, okay?"

_"Why the hell does he get two?!_ " South snaps in the background.

"Just get here ASAP and blow some shit up if you need to," he says quickly, "and don't lose Beta! Oregon out." He switches off the channel, clenches his fists, turns to the AIs still suspended near York who studies the motion map with imperative detail. "Hey, can I ask you two something?"

_"Shoot."_

" _Certainly_."

"Who's Alpha?"

Epsilon hovers for a moment, as if searching through his mind for the answer. _"Sorry,"_ he responds finally, _"but it seems I can't remember."_

Delta doesn't take as long to reply. _"I cannot answer that question as the term does not exist in my database._ "

"Never mind then."

"What's with you and this Alpha?" York asks. "Did the Director have you come looking for information on it?"

"Let's just say, it's something that keeps coming up and I'm doing my own little private investigation into it."

"Sounds like something you should keep your nose out of."

"Forget it, you wouldn't understand."

York exchanges a glance with Delta, turns away. "Okay then. I'll forget we ever had the conversation."

"…Are the twins here yet?"

"You called them all of a minute ago, you need to give them some time to cross the island before-"

An explosion rocks the building from somewhere close by and the emergency sirens erupt to life. Oregon and York stare at each other blankly before Epsilon speaks up. _"Gotta give them credit for their efficiency."_

      

     

     

     

    

North suggests blowing up a jeep, South ends up detonating three and the former of the two is nearly impaled by shrapnel. If that doesn't explain them in a nutshell, nothing really can.

South has more fun when she's running a rescue operation that descends into chaos because, at the very least, she isn't being timed for it. North, however, hates being pinned down by dozen of soldiers when there's only enough ammunition between them to take out approximately fifty hostiles, not the hundred currently spilling out into the area. It doesn't take more than a few minutes following the explosion for the twins to find themselves fighting off more Insurgents than usual, and in another two, they end up pressed back-to-back with the enemy soldiers ringing around every side.

"This seems familiar," North remarks sarcastically, sweeping his guns in each direction. Theta hovers close over his shoulder, buzzing with energy, prepared to throw up the bubble shield walls.

South glances at Eta, returns her attention to the soldiers. "You with me bro?"

"I'll take this half."

"Fair deal."

"You're surrounded," their commander shouts, assault rifle raised at them as they continue to circle, never missing a cue. "Surrender now and maybe we'll consider letting you live!"

York's nonchalant voice crackles to life in their intercoms. _"Oregon and I are going to the relay point. Do you two need any help?"_

South scoffs, raises the shot gun for the commander's forehead.

"We've got this."

    

    

     

     

   

The dusky forest behind the Freelancers is defined by a pillar of smoke near the tower, and Oregon plays with the commander's damaged helmet as Epsilon and Beta dig around in the logs for any information they can use. York is sprawled out on the sand without worry, North and South leaning against each other's backs as the older twin etches pictographs of animals into the sand with his combat knife. Theta attempts to show off a kick-flip on his skateboard but Eta merely tilts her head quizzically, probably not impressed.

Oregon glances over at a rock pile approximately North's height, sagging over nearby like a depressed, melting snowman. "Uh. Hey, what's that?"

"Your statue," South says matter-of-factly.

"…It's a pile of rocks."

"You wanted us to capture your excellence."

"I guess I should be flattered you actually made the attempt… _bitch_."

"You get anything out of the helmet?" North asks.

"Nothing yet – uh, wait, here we go."

Epsilon and Beta appear and Oregon greets them with an anticipated look, but the black-armored AI simply shakes her head. _"We didn't find anything of value. They haven't made any outside calls in weeks."_

Oregon exhales, tosses the helmet into the ocean waves. It impacts with a solid thump, sinks under the engulfing water. "Whatever, we tried. The Director can't reprimand us for that, at least."

_"Agents, your time is up. Report._ "

"Speaking of." Oregon switches on his channel. "Sup Director? We retrieved York and fried the tower. But there wasn't anything left in their system, it was a dud."

_"Very well. You did your job. I'm deploying a dropship to your location, you may return home."_

"Copy that."

York waits for the agent in blue to close the channel before speaking up. "Uh, Oregon, I'm pretty sure you found-"

"No York," he shoots back, his tone unusually jagged, "I didn't find _anything_. Got that?"

"Jeez, okay."

"Too bad," South says, stretching her arms above her head. "The weather is nice here. It's been forever since we've had a moment to relax."

Oregon brings up the twenty-two files again. Sounds almost troubled in his response.

"We've been on this godforsaken island long enough."

* * *

   

   

    

   

   

The debriefing is quicker than usual. The Director doesn't question them on how it went or what they found, doesn't care about how many soldiers were killed in the process; merely gives the twins and Oregon their points and orders the Dakotas out, commands the Counselor to take his leave elsewhere. Now stands poised with an unexcused Oregon shifting uncomfortably across from him. Epsilon and Beta hover over either shoulder, silently observing the scene.

"What did you find on the island?" the Director finally asks when the silence becomes unbearable.

"They're conducting experiments on people, just like you said – they're replicating some super soldier experiment theory from the U.N.S.C files. I think the whole reason they kept York alive when they captured him was because they wanted to make him part of the project."

The Director's glare hardens. "We will have to be more careful. You said the system was empty?"

"Of anything of interest, yes. I had Epsilon reboot their mainframe to delete everything of value to them."

"I'm glad to see you finally activated Epsilon."

"About that, why the hell do I have two AIs?"

The Director doesn't seem to mind the change in their conversation, probably figures he's received the peak of the report, and firmly crosses his hands behind his back. "It was part of a theory, that since you imprinted on them so early in their development, you would be the only agent capable of handling more than one."

"Isn't that dangerous though?"

"Not in your case." He nods in the direction of the AI with the sniper rifle. "You can keep Epsilon for the time being. Just do not synch with him, allow him to communicate by synching with Beta. You should be fine for now, but if anything goes wrong, we will immediately remove Epsilon and have him reassigned."

"What's so special about Epsilon?"

"His birth, as the first coherent AI despite Beta being the true eldest, posed a vast increase in intelligence and self-awareness that could not be matched by his siblings in the same lapsing rate. His rate of maturity is so incomprehensibly accelerated it was almost as if he might be a bigger sliver of a fragment. I would not want to run the risk of him running rampant or getting latched onto the metaphysical theorem like Sigma has."

_Metaphysical theorem_. "I'll be careful with him then."

"As expected."

"And one more thing…who is Alpha?"

"That's _classified_ , agent Oregon," the Director snaps, and the Freelancer takes half a step back.

"Alright, chill. In that case forget I ever asked."

The Director rolls the retrieved USB drive in his fingers, the one labelled EX-TS-14B. "Mm. I must say, I am thoroughly surprised you managed to find something like this."

"Right? I had a hunch it might contain files pertaining to the experiments. The Insurrection made a real deal out of it."

"That will be all for today, agent Oregon. You're dismissed."

   

   

   

   

   

He's seated on a stool in the weapon's chamber, fixing up his sniper rifle when Tex saunters through the door, her typically polished black armor scuffed up from the day's events in the field. Some marine operation with Wyoming and Wash that turned particularly nasty when Wash quite literally tripped the alarm by falling into the emergency switch on the wall. Clumsy dipshit. Oregon gives him credit for managing to maintain his spot in the top ten despite apparently messing up every mission he's deployed on (even though he suspects that the implantation of Ita will fix a lot of those issues).

"Hey Tex."

She sweeps off her helmet, shakes out her hair and sets the piece on the edge of the table. "Saw you head out of the Director's office by yourself, what'd he want?"

"I'm fine, by the way."

"I'm sure you are. The mission seemed simple."

"Are you? Heard Wash fucked it up, none-too-surprisingly."

"It's almost like I'm top of the list for a reason."

Oregon sets down his rifle, flexes his sore fingers. "Fair enough. The Director was just asking about some stuff involving what I dug up on the Insurrection, and then my implants, actually, nothing else really eventful."

Tex perches in the seat beside him, swivels so her back is to him. She brushes her ponytail aside. Gestures to her neck. "Did he think you damaged Beta or something?"

"Or something…" Oregon presses his fingertips gently to her neck, finds where her muscles are tense, rubs the pads of his thumbs up against the swellings. She sinks into him easily. Murmurs with approval under her breath. "You know he gave me two AIs?"

"…Two? That's dangerous."

_She knows._ He eases the knots out of her neck with fonder strokes, alternating between small circles and linear patterns along the length of her bones. "It is?"

"That's really, really dangerous. Especially since you don't have two armor enhancements."

"I don't have any enhancements. Not _really_."

Tex perks up to this, but she settles a moment later. "You weren't assigned one?"

"You mean there's something you don't know?"

"Don't be a jackass."

He scoffs under his breath, kneads into an inflamed spot at the base of her neck to ease the ache. She probably twisted it in whiplash on the mission. "I don't have any tested armor enhancements to make room for that prototype of the replication enhancement, you know, where you can copy others from base codings?"

"That enhancement is untested! What the hell was he thinking?" Tex mumbles, pressing her fingers to her temples.

He moves his hands down to her collar, up to the undersides of her ears. She emits a tiny, wistful sigh in response. Oregon recognizes a sudden warmth in his stomach that amplifies when he feels the smoky presence of Beta probing into his mind, seeking to connect with an emotion AIs cannot understand any better than humans. Epsilon, without the synch, has no access to his memories and he's almost thankful, kind of hates that frigid chill in the back of his head when both AIs are present. Picks up his pace a bit so Tex will lean back towards him.

"The Director probably thinks I can handle it," he says finally.

Tex is normally serious, stoic and blatant and inquisitive, occasionally flirty and humorous, but rarely will she express genuine worry. She reaches back cautiously, folding her hand over his, the armors clashing blue on black. He responds by lacing their fingers. "Can you?"

"I don't know, we'll see what happens."

"Seems that's the only option you have for now."

She pulls away so she can turn to him, offers a small smile that fails to meet her eyes. Worried. Concerned. Maybe like she wants to tell him something that she can't possibly bear to acknowledge at a time like this. Her fingers trace the shadow of his beard, gazing at him curiously, gauging his reaction as his own stare diverts to the details of her face. Her lightly chapped lips, slightly parted, his name hesitating on the precipice of her next breath. This time leaning in to fill the distance between them. His hands have found purchase on her shoulders. One palm skirts up to her cheek, drawing her closer. Can feel his nervous exhale patter against her nose, they're so _close_.

"Hey, Tex?" he whispers, brushing her loose bangs over her ear.

"Yeah?"

_"Tahyme."_

Oregon is later treated for a broken eye socket that heals before the x-rays come back. Needless to say, he doesn't poke fun at Tex's accent anymore.

   

   

   


	4. Slipspace Part I: Oregon 007

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the ship drops into slipspace, Rhode Island makes her move and Oregon makes his move and South suggests that York make a move and everyone is moving. It's a disaster waiting to happen.

_“_ _We’re going to experiment with the regeneration process.”_

_“It’s only a theory.”_

_“Nevertheless, I want him to undergo the surgery. Splice his genes until you get it right.”_

_“This could kill him.”_

_“And if all goes well, he won’t remember it.”_

Oregon stirs awake as the dream – as the memory – fades like fog and his first reaction is to rush into his private bathroom and vomit. The stomach acids burn his throat like liquid fire but he surrenders to the pain all the same, shakes because Beta is emitting that same sensation of inhaling smoke as she attempts to stabilize his panic and Epsilon appears in attempt to calm them both down. Oregon doesn’t register the voices until he’s falling forward onto his hands, cursing against every nerve on his body igniting like ice and fire and then suddenly, he passes out.

When he awakens again it’s to Beta and Epsilon hovering over him, attempting to talk him back into reality. He doesn’t grasp how long he’s been unconscious, and if anything, he can’t remember quite why the nightmare caused such a lapse in anxiety.

_“Oregon? Are you alright?”_

_“He isn’t communicating. I should have FILSS call a doctor.”_

_“He’s fine B, he’s just in shock.”_

_“So I should definitely have FILSS call a doctor.”_

“I’m okay,” Oregon mutters, forcing himself back up to his knees. “I’m okay I just need a minute.”

 _“You were having a nightmare based on a repressed memory,”_ Beta informs him, her voice suddenly gentle. It soothes him, almost, if he weren’t still dazed from before. _“I tried to stimulate you when I sensed your distress, but instead you had a complete mental and emotional breakdown.”_

“A…repressed memory?”

_“As long as we’re synched I know every thought, dream, and memory you experience.”_

Oregon coughs awkwardly. “Oh, uh, right. So about that one dream with the twins, last week…”

_“I’ve already deleted it from my data for my own sake.”_

“Two steps ahead of me, then.”

Oregon gradually pulls himself to his feet, helps himself to a piss before he flushes the waste, and brushes his teeth twice. He returns to his room after pondering the memory in the mirror above the sink, notes that he hasn’t saved in weeks and his beard is coming back in. According to the internalized clocks displayed on a small screen over his desk the morning hasn’t quite started yet and he climbs back into bed to get another hour of shut eye before the bags under his eyes get any heavier. The engines hum like a distant song floors beneath him, lulling him under with ease, a silence that rattles in the wake of tomorrow’s scheduled jump.

Tomorrow means slipspace. But for today, Oregon sleeps.

* * *

 

   

  

  

Slipspace. Ten days.

Oregon knows that this is the only time when Freelancers are the only active members of the ship – besides FILSS and several necessary medics and engineers – left to occupy themselves for up to two weeks in a single jump. He’s almost thankful he can move unrestricted in cargo pants instead of the armor that weighs as much as a vehicle, makes sparring with Tex that much easier because at least this way she doesn’t have access to her unconditional strength (still floors him though. No surprise there).

The distilled quiet bothers him before the end of the first cycle but there isn’t much he can do to occupy himself without associating with his coworkers. Having to socialize, however, boasts another challenge entirely.

And needless to say, he’s already fucked up.

The tension is thick and suffocating when Carolina enters the mess hall for breakfast during the second cycle. Every Freelancer currently in the room falls eerily silent as the walking salt factory makes her way down the center aisle and towards the crates of food left in place of what the chefs would normally cook for an entire crew, completely bypassing everyone without so much as a hi. She’s usually pleasant enough to greet them before scraping together a small platter, but her piercing glare manages to unnerve the room and as a result, they’re all kind of glad she hasn’t spoken yet.

It’s unusual, to say the least.

She does, however, return to a table several seconds later to plant herself next to York, across from the twins. Carolina sips her carton of almond milk but doesn’t bother to touch the apple slices she had carelessly dropped on the paper plate. Her presence is like a thunderstorm, her scowl fierce, her mood radiating as much ire as a demon.

Wash leans towards CT and whispers, while glancing in the direction of the seething woman, “What’s wrong with doom and gloom?”

“I have _no_ idea. But I’m a little scared.”

“She’s mad at me because I insulted her cooking last night,” Oregon replies matter-of-factly, and loud enough for Carolina to hear from the other table. Immediately she tenses. “She got bored enough to try to make some goddamn chili and Maine’s been in the infirmary ward ever since.”

Carolina shoots up from her seat and slams her palms onto the tabletop, scaring the living shit out of the other soldiers. “Fuck you, Oregon! That recipe has been in my family for generations!”

“No wonder you’re the only one left.”

She recollects herself, drops down into her seat again. After a moment she glares at her best friend to her left. “It wasn’t _that_ bad…was it, York?”

“It’s…” He clears his throat and noticeably scooches away. Just in case. “Honestly? It’s not the worst I’ve had. Despite being barely digestible, I think the texture was fine.”

Oregon scoffs. “It was like swallowing shards of _glass_.”

“Like the glass I’m going to put through your _head_?!”

“God, you can’t handle a little constructive criticism.”

“I don’t think insults count as being constructive,” North responds listlessly, passing his sister his remaining half of a peeled orange when she makes the gesture. “If you think you can do any better at it, why don’t _you_ give cooking a shot?”

“Because I could use _rat poison_ as my main ingredient and still kill less people.”

Carolina crosses her arms over her chest. This time her glare is turned on Oregon, who doesn’t seem to give two shits about how he is, in fact, damaging her pride. “I just figured I would do something _nice_ ,” she seethes.

“Yeah, don’t.”

The tables fall into a collectively awkward silence.

“You _really_ need to be less of an asshole,” CT says blatantly.

Oregon feels the smoky burn of Beta in the back of his head and reaches back to touch her implant chip. She’s soothed briefly, still emits a shuddering warmth. The other Freelancers with AIs touch their chips as well, as if they’re simultaneously experiencing the same discomfort, but after a moment they appear to ignore the feeling as nothing more than a side effect. He excuses himself from the table, tosses his disposable tray into the steady pile in the kitchen’s trash and takes his leave with Carolina’s glare on his back the whole way out.

Beta appears once the door slides shut behind him. _“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to do that.”_

“It’s fine. Are you alright?”

_“We AIs can sense when our siblings are in trouble or in turmoil within a limited radius based on distress patterns.”_

Oregon glances down the corridor as Beta stares off, thinks he can hear some voices drifting gently around the corner. “Did the others feel it?”

_“Yes. But it was Omega, so they didn’t want to respond.”_

“Black sheep of the family much?”

_“I’m the only one Omega doesn’t hate.”_

“I got that, B.”

The voices drift around the corner again. He follows Beta’s lead down the length of the hall to the turn, takes the passage to the maw of the split. The wall is replaced with a viewing window that overlooks the stars jetting by like liquid white fire, branches off left and right – to the right, access to the southern bridge and to the left, a path to the quarters of the crew all currently in isosleep.

Tex is with the Director, which explains the source of Omega’s distress given how the AIs are always uneasy around him. She doesn’t seem to be bothered the way Omega is. Her arms are crossed lightly against her chest, she has her gaze transfixed on space rocketing by like silver bullets, and the Director’s just as placid beside her, hands folded casually behind his back, eyes studying her translucent reflection in the window pane.

“I do understand, but you’re not listening to me.”

“I am,” he responds quickly, “you know I am.”

“So why haven’t you told him the truth? Why haven’t you told _her_ the truth?”

“It’s not the right time.” The Director gives her an almost pitiful look, the only other expression he’s ever mustered up aside from a constant furrow of agitation. “I promised you I would be the one to do it. I always keep my promises, Allison.”

Tex scoffs, gazes down at something grasped tightly in her fist when it splays open like a flower. Oregon can’t get a proper glimpse of the object as it appears but she curls her fingers around it possessively and he quickly ducks back behind the wall.

The Director turns his stare to the passing stars. “How are you coping?”

“You shouldn’t have done it.”

“…Are you angry with me?”

“Like I said,” she interjects. Her voice hasn’t changed, a mild apathy. “I understand. And you shouldn’t have done it. They deserve to know the truth.”

“Allison-”

“I’ve moved on. I’ve accepted what’s happened and I can’t do it anymore.” She grabs his forearm, drags out his hand and drops the object into his palm. “It wasn’t your fault, but if you don’t start making things right – if you let the guilt destroy you again – then I can’t, and I _won’t_ , help you when it all comes crashing down. And then it really will be all your fault.”

The Director presses his lips together, doesn’t respond to that.

“I’m going to be loyal to the program as a _Freelancer,_ so I’ll keep my mouth shut; that’s all I can promise you for now. I was never compatible with the Alpha, but if your theory works out then I can at least do my part…I owe you that much.”

“You don’t owe me anything.”

Oregon feels a hand on his mouth. He whirls around to face Rhode Island who has her forefinger pressed to her lips, ushering a very small ‘ssh.’ He hasn’t seen her out of her armor in weeks, standing at only four-eleven, auburn hair braided back. Curious brown eyes hold him steady, waiting for the conversation in the background to switch onto a different topic – which it doesn’t because Tex immediately dismisses herself and storms off to the right, failing to notice the two agents pressing back to the wall as she disappears through the door.

Rhodes gestures for him to follow her. He gives one last look over his shoulder at the Director, lets her take lead, and suddenly remembers to breathe.

   

   

   

“What’s up?”

Rhodes guides Oregon into the darkened classroom. She makes sure there’s no one venturing down the hall before the door slides shut with a metallic hiss that rings like a shotgun in the quiet, pacing over to the single lit up screen at the closest station. “I need you, Oregon.”

“Here? Right now?” He rubs the back of his neck and exhales. “Do I have time to grab some protection from the medical wing?”

“Fuck _off_ , that’s not what I meant. I need to know what you found on your last mission to Monolith.”

He hesitates. “Is Monolith your safeword?”

“Oregon!”

“Okay, _okay_ , I’ll stop. But seriously, what’s Monolith?”

“The island planet where York went missing.”

“Oh shit that place had a _name_? I just put down ‘paradise planet’ in my report.” Oregon presses his lips into a thin line when Rhodes turns to give him a look that’s crossed between disgust and confusion. “Uh, anyway, what do you want to know? Specifically.”

Rhodes lifts his helmet from the desktop. “I want you to give me access to the files you found.”

“How’d you get that?”

“York isn’t the only one good at cracking locks.”

“York isn’t _any_ good at cracking locks.”

Rhodes sets his helmet in his hands, frowns slightly. “I didn’t want you to know I was snooping, but it seems your AIs encrypted the contents.”

Oregon flips it over, finds the memory cards for the AIs thankfully intact, glances inside. “How’d you know I found anything at all?”

“The Director is a curious person. He never sends anyone to a secret location without requesting the retrieval of information.”

“Fair enough. And why should I let you have access to my files?”

“Because I have something you want to hear.”

“Jesus, Rhodie, what the hell are you talking about? You’re acting like I’m up to something.”

Rhodes exhales gently, gestures to the chair. “Sit.” She perches in her seat, waits for him to settle beside her before logging into her private account. “A few weeks ago the Director asked me to run a solo op. Beta-lancers never run missions, let alone by themselves, only reconnaissance every so often – so of course I figured he didn’t want the alpha-lancers to know anything.” She brings up the audio file. “It got worse. He lent me the stealth enhancement so I could break into the Commissioner of Charon’s office.”

“He gave you an armor enhancement with no AI to run it? You do know what happened to Utah, right?”

“That’s not the point.” She taps the screen. “The Director wanted me to find this file and erase it from existence. I did, of course, but kept a copy for myself. Something didn’t feel right. And then I listened to it.”

She presses play.

_"Mr. Commissioner, let me begin by explaining – zzzt – mos – pr – th – this drastic measure is only being taken to ensure the survival of Pro – Free – Reela – You need not worry about the soldier… he's nameless – w – fit right in with the rest of the program… F – zzzt – work with Alpha personally. Some mem – loss in order, altercations should be made to minimize risks – need wor – zzt – …Signing off, Dr. – ard – Urch – zztt…"_

“Alpha,” Oregon utters, running his fingertips over the screen.

“Ring a bell?”

“Yeah.” He lifts the helmet onto the desk with a solid thunk. “Monolith was taken by the Insurrectionists when I got there. The Director had me erase files on our project from their system, but as I was going through everything I found the same terms being used over and over again. So I retrieved some information on the U.N.S.C super soldier program, and some side files pertaining to Alpha.”

“I thought the super soldier program was just a theory?”

“ _Was_. The U.N.S.C is funding a secret military project to further advance Spartans and their capabilities in the field within the legal boundaries set by the government. Project Freelancer is part of that branch, working with the AI programs to enhance operations in the field using advanced armor upgrades that would normally kill a regular soldier. Even if we aren’t always within legal standards during our trials.” He draws out a port wire from the desk and hooks it into his inner helm, brings up the files on the screen. “Epsilon, decrypt.”

 _“On it,”_ the AI responds, appearing over Oregon’s shoulder. He flickers briefly, solidifies once more. _“Done.”_

Oregon tabs through the files arranged into folders under the names Alpha, Freelancer, and Insurrection. He pulls up the file under the label 14B. “The Insurrection must have gotten word of the program because according to everything here, they’re trying to replicate one of the theories. They mention a bunch of times about the fear of the prison of flesh, that our humanity is what weakens us as soldiers. Or something like that. They bring up the Elites, they bring up Alpha, and they bring up Project Freelancer a bunch, but they’re just studying how we operate. They don’t have any information on Alpha, not like we do.”

Rhodes leans in, scrolls through the pages briskly. “Do they talk about any of the other projects? Or at least the heads of the programs?”

“No. They only seem to be in the dark about where Alpha might be, and according to some of the files, they’ve tracked it down to Project Freelancer.”

“That means someone here has the Alpha AI. But the question is _who_.”

Oregon hesitates, shakes his head. “We shouldn’t talk about this again until something new comes up.”

“Deal. And…thanks, Oregon.”

“Huh?”

“I just…” She reaches over, gently clutches his shoulder. “I’m glad I can trust you.”

* * *

 

   

  

  

The third cycle begins, seven still remain and Tex finds herself relocating to more occupied parts of the ship in a vain attempt to forget her encounter with the Director. She considers challenging Carolina to a sparring match, maybe even Maine if he was up for an asskicking again, but her interest in the prospect of fighting feels like a dry stimulation to her already throbbing brain and she forgets about it entirely. Omega attempts to nag at her nerves a bit as a result of his inherent disappointment.

She strolls casually into the Freelancer’s private lounge to find North and York engaged in a mild game of table tennis while Theta and Delta look on in amusement, Wash is seated on the couch reading a personal magazine on cats, South is sprawled out with her legs crossed over his lap and her head against the arm rest, tabbing through a crossword on her tablet. Eta appears and Iota flickers to life a moment later. They dance around each other, form into a single orb that spins on brackets of gold and sapphire before disappearing again.

Across the room is a television that hasn’t been turned on in a while, to its right the wall is a massive display window that unveils the melding of space. Tex thinks she’s tired of being on this ship and wants, more than anything, to have an excuse not interact with anyone today. Ugh, the conversation with the Director has really set her on edge.

Nebraska rifles through the fridge to dig up a soda, mumbles about the disarray. North hits his serve to York who returns without delay and Tex sits herself in a stool at the high counter, figures she’s more interested in dropping out of slipspace so she can get her next assignment. Fieldwork, at the very least, keeps her from worrying about the Director, about a lot of shit, really.

“You look down,” Nebraska says as he makes his way over to Tex, handing her the extra sprite can he found behind some of Maine’s packaged leftovers. He’s blond with freckles and she finds something innocent about that.

“Thanks.”

Nebraska perches in the seat beside her, pushes in the tongue of the can and slides in a bendy straw. “No Oregon today? You two are practically attached at the hip.”

Tex pops the tab with her forefinger, raises her shoulders passively. “We haven’t been so attached now that he’s gotten a hang of the job.”

“York needs to date Carolina before he gets messed up again,” South says in the background, adding to a conversation that had started while Tex wasn’t listening.

York misses his serve and emits a brief whine, banging the paddle into the table. “Can’t you just drop it already?”

South scoffs. “Dude, she has the hots for you. And you’re so fucking deep in your grave you may as well meet her at the bottom.”

“Stop antagonizing him,” North shoots back.

Tex watches them in fascination, her mind wandering onto other things, onto the Director and Oregon and speaking of Oregon, he enters the lounge several seconds later. He seems a bit perplexed by how every eye glances at him in synch before moving back to the activities at hand. Tex doesn’t look at him, she figures he’s going to navigate over to her anyway.

He does. “Hey, Tex, Nebraska.”

“Hey man,” Nebraska says impassively, sipping out of his drink.

Oregon leans against the counter and Tex greets him a small smirk, but his rebounding scowl doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “Listen, I’m bored out of my mind. Let’s spar a bit.”

Tex raises her eyebrow. He usually asks, never demands. “Third time this week. You got a deathwish or something?”

“More like a fetish,” Nebraska mutters into his can.

Oregon glares at him, looks back at her. “I’m heading down to training with my AIs anyway, so I don’t really give a shit. Show up or don’t.”

Tex notices the tension in his voice but he’s already leaving before she can bring it up. Oregon is, without a doubt, infamous for his personality rather than his shitty weapons scores, yet Tex doesn’t mind all that much. She wants to say she prefers people who are blatantly honest (even if he is just as equally sarcastic to a fault) to those who feign jovial expressions. But even with a stick the size of Mars shoved up his ass, Oregon has never seemed so uncomfortable. He’s being an asshole because something’s _bothering_ him and she can’t help but notice the sudden itch under her skin.

Nebraska snorts humorlessly. “Dude’s a prick,” he remarks, “how the hell do you put up with it?”

“He’s not usually this uptight.”

“…Think something might be wrong with him?”

Tex hesitates, returns her attention to her drink. “There always seems to be something wrong with him.”

    

    

   

She does finally show up, finds him in the center of the simulation field sparring against the hexagonal targets that rotate in circles around him. His skills have been steadily improving since his first mission in the field, with gradual increases to his offensive assessments and weapon evaluations. His side-kicks are nearly flawless though his hook kicks are a bit lazy, and his punches land with ease. At this rate he could probably start ascending up the board a lot quicker, might just hop out of beta-lancer territory.

_“SIMULATION COMPLETE. THERE IS A 7.37% IMPROVEMENT TO YOUR OVERALL SCORE. YOU’VE BEEN GETTING MUCH BETTER, AGENT OREGON.”_

“Thanks FILSS. End the simulation.”

As the session winds down Omega appears before him, hazy like darkness with starlight seeping into his armor from the energy around him. He murmurs quietly. A moment later Beta and Epsilon materialize to greet him, muttering just as inaudibly, some weird language among the siblings when they greet each other in groups larger than two. Perhaps they synch up slower as their numbers grow, not that any of the Freelancers address the obnoxious sonance of incoherent chatter.

Oregon turns to Tex as she approaches him. “Oh, you showed. Ready?”

She holds his gaze, raises her fists to her face. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t-”

“Oregon, tell me what’s wrong.”

He exhales, lifts his hands in his usual starting position. “I have a lot on my mind, okay?”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No. Just hit me.”

“Jeez, you really _do_ have a fetish.”

“First of all it’s called a kink,” he snaps back, briskly amending his statement, “and secondly, no I _don’t_.”

She engages in simple punches that he blocks with relative ease, and they gradually work into adapting with kicks and elbows and knee strikes. When Tex allows the thrill to set in she becomes a force only a single fraction below barreling vehicle, her hits coming harder and faster and never stopping to give him a break until he nearly collapses from the dazzling dance of it all. And Oregon doesn’t hold back because she can handle it, because she needs the excitement and the energy and bruises that swell where muscle threads to flesh.

“Dammit!”

“You got it, don’t stop.”

“No I mean – ow – _ow_!”

But today is different. Suddenly Oregon isn’t keep pace with her, as if his mind keeps wandering elsewhere and he only manages to block a split second before her blows connect, and his returning hits barely skim. He’s _allowing_ her to leave welts, to nearly break his bones again and something about it is bothering her.

“Take this seriously, Leon.”

“I’m trying! You’re like a fucking train!”

She drives her knee into his stomach, sends him stumbling back, and follows through with a hook punch that nearly shatters his jaw but floors him like a toppling tower. He mutters curses as he works his way back to his knees, clutching at the swelling on his face.

“Alright, enough of this bullshit. What the hell has gotten into you?”

“I just – I just don’t _understand_.”

Tex furrows her brow. “What?”

“It’s not some goddamn armor enhancement, Tex. I keep _healing_. I keep healing and it’s not an armor enhancement and if it isn’t an enhancement then what the fuck _is_ it?” He clenches his hands into fists and nearly breaks something punching the floor in his despair. “ _What the fuck am I?”_

“Leon?”

Tex figures she should have seen this coming at some point or another. In her distraction he manages to sweep out her legs, grasps her wrists on her recovery and pins her to the floor. She _lets_ him. Much to her own dismay, she’s reluctant on moving. His knee is settled uncomfortably close to the apex of hips between her legs, has her hands anchored over her head.

Her voice lowers to a heated whisper. “What are you doing, Leon?”

His gaze is burning like a wild forest fire, embers on green and flames consuming life. “I just needed to feel something. I’m so tired of healing and I’m so tired of never being normal. I needed – I _need_ – to feel _human_ again.”

She holds his stare, engrossed in the way he draws her in, submerges her like a rock in water. He delves into this desire, leans in, drawing their lips together. They fit. They fit like puzzle pieces on a board, connected wholly and designed to exist as one. It would have bothered her at any other point to feel so exposed, so vulnerable, to as simple a concept as attraction. Yet here she is, tilting her head back, allowing him to kiss her feverishly. Heat pools into her stomach when he brings his knee up closer and she can feel the pressure of their colliding flesh; he releases her arms to slide one hand around her back, pulling her up against him, utilizes his other hand to keep balanced.

She subconsciously moans gently into him. One set of fingers caress the underside of his jaw, the others grasp at his obsidian locks. His thigh presses up again, rocks several times in an agonizingly slow way that creates friction, earning a gasp.

_“Shit.”_

He suddenly hates how their clothing is in the way. He occupies himself by kissing her again, holding her as close as he can get, celebrating a fractional victory when she moves her hips against the motion of his leg. She hasn’t felt such an overwhelming desire since her days in senior year of high school, when she was hopping guys and skipping classes and acing her grades all the same. His pace picks up, her side begins to ache with phantom pain from the shrapnel. Everything overwhelms her at once.

She’s close to something that she hasn’t felt in a long, long time.

Almost immediately she shoves him off and he sputters in disbelief. “Uhm, did I – Tex?”

“Your room, _now_.”

    

   

   

They make it there by dodging every Freelancer roaming the ship with ease and by the time the door’s closed he’s pinned her against the wall with his lips to her neck. “You must have a power kink,” he mutters against her cheek, trailing kisses along the frame of her jaw to the arch of her neck, seeking out her nerves.

“No.”

“A submission fantasy.”

“ _Shut up_ ,” she stresses, gasping when he locates her sweet spot at the jugular. He sinks his teeth into the pulse point on her neck, earning an intensely brief cry that’s cut off by her sudden peak. The friction and the tension crash downwards, dragging out her ecstasy as she rolls her hips with fervor, nails digging desperately into the back of his neck.

“Then why?”

“Because I want to fill a need.”

“I can fill any need you desire.”

“On my terms.”

He draws to an immediate stop and pulls back, quirks an eyebrow. “ _Terms_? What is this, sex or a constitutional amendment?”

Tex shrugs, her hands on his waist, the fire between them radiating in the friction. “It seemed like the professional thing to do.”

“…So, it basically won’t mean anything?”

She glances elsewhere. “I never said that.”

“I mean, I’m fine with…whatever it is you want to do, I just liked the idea of it meaning something. Because I kind of like you.”

“Kind of?”

Oregon exhales. He always seems to sigh when it comes to her. “I kind of like you a whole fucking lot, okay? There, I said it.”

“In what way?”

“In what fucking way do you _think_ , Tex?”

“…”

“You’re just fucking with me at this point, aren’t you?” Tex holds his gaze, but she doesn’t respond. He groans, pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’ve gotten to know you by now, Allison. You don’t let people get close, so why are we sitting here, having this conversation if you’re more intent on playing me than letting me in?”

“Because I like you a lot too.” She returns her gaze to his, offers him a small smile as he brushes her bangs over her ear. “Because you’re the first person who I’ve let get this close to me in a very long time and you haven’t hurt me. Because I like being with you but I’m still… _unsure_ , of what I’m really feeling and of what we’ll be doing twenty years from now. All I do know is that I like you”—she leans forward, pressing her hands into his thighs—“and that I want you, Leon. Those are two completely separate desires that are overlapping in a way I won’t bother trying to decipher. So the answer is, yes it’ll mean something, but I can’t promise you what the something will be.”

Oregon stumbles over his words, finally exhales his breath. “Works for me.”

“Really? Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“Okay.”

“Alright.”

“Stop making it weird.”

He draws her in for a kiss. Kind of hates himself for not doing this sooner.

 

  

  


	5. Slipspace Part II: Finding Nebraska

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More is revealed about Tex and Oregon, and Oregon attempts to befriend some of the beta-lancers. Easier said than done, of course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the feedback so far! You guys are the best! 
> 
> This chapter focuses a lot on character development for the sake of the lack of it, but next chapter is going to kick back up with action and drama and pretty much everything you could possibly expect out of me at this point. Enjoy!

_"It's him. It's Oregon."_

_The Director gives Tex a side-long look as she storms into his office with her helmet tucked under her arm so she has something to beat him to death with, in the event she chooses not to kill him with his own skull, that is. He's glossing through data obtained on the recent missions but sets it quickly aside so he can lean back in his chair and meet her flaring gaze. "So you connected the dots," he remarks as if taking notes on a science project, all business and fact._

_Tex presses her fist into the table, narrows her glare into daggers that could assassinate leaders. "He doesn't know, does he?"_

_"He doesn't."_

_"Then I want access to his restricted files."_

_"Allison-"_

_She slams her fist down against the screen of the projection slab and it shatters easily. The Director doesn't flinch, he's adapted to his agents throwing fits on the ship (even if everything is moderately expensive, not that South in particular has a concept for price tags). "I swear to God, Leonard, if you went ahead with the gene splicing experiment I'm going to make your life a living hell!"_

_"Life has been hell for me, Allison." He draws forward, a frown etching into the aged lines of his stoic expression. "But if you're worried about the effects, I assure you he will be alright. If it will help you calm down, I will give you access so long as you promise to keep his files under wraps."_

_"I'm not promising anything, Leonard. You're keeping yourself a secret from the Freelancers and now you're keeping Oregon a secret from me."_

_"I can give you access only if you promise me. Promise me he will not find out until I deem it proper."_

_After a moment she recedes, recollecting herself and her stimulated desire to trash the room for the sake of feeling better. The Director slides a drive out of a small drawer in the side of the table that only opens when it reads his thumb print, and he hands it to her without expecting a word of thank you. "Omega should be able to decrypt the files. You may use it to your liking."_

_Tex pops it into her helmet's port and has Omega run through the programming, decoding and resaving the documents. As she glances at the files on the inside of her visor, she gives him a scowl. "You son of a bitch."_

_"Allison-"_

_"I can't believe you did this. The tests were one thing but the gene splicing was only a theory! You could have killed him."_

_"He is alive and well."_

_"I can see that."_

_The Director exhales gently. "After the accident additional steps were taken to ensure the survival of the program." Tex rolls her eyes and paces back and forth across the room, just to relieve some stress. "We could not repeat the same incident! And I was **not** going to put Carolina through something like that. Not after-"_

_"I get that, but that doesn't make it right!"_

_The Director slams his hands into the broken table as he shoots up, raising his voice to meet her own distressed tone. "It's not about making it right it's about making it work!"_

_"For fuckssake, he has your goddamn name! How do you explain that one? Did you proceed with the memory neuron altercations theory too?!" The Director presses his lips together and Tex scoffs. "Un-fucking-believable. Did you ever stop to think that you're going way too far?"_

_"It's not my job to have moral obligations."_

_"It's your job to make sure we survive! Thirty-two families had to find out their kids, their partners, their spouses, their friends, were killed because you were hired to test a money-hungry corporation's scientific theorem!" Tex presses her hand to her chest and holds his glare with equal intensity. "I almost died! Was that not good enough for you?!"_

_"That was an accident!"_

_"And that makes it right?!"_

_"It's not about making it **right**!"_

_"And that's your goddamn problem! How about you start making things right for a change?! How about you start making things right with your own daughter, that scared little girl who had to grow up without either of her parents because you don't know when to let shit go?!"_

_The door to the office slides open with a metallic hiss and Carolina appears in the frame, glancing between them urgently. "I heard shouting, is everything okay?"_

_"Fine!" they snap in synch, and she visibly flinches._

_Her father's eyes, her grandmother's red hair, her mother's face. Compiled into a woman hardened by years of deceit and intense training and unyielding pain, her favorite color like a lagoon and her intelligence unmatched by most. Carolina is everything her parents hoped she would be and Tex's hands tremble as the anger returns; she casts her glare back at the man still staring intently at her in return._

_"This conversation isn't done," Tex hisses, storming around Carolina and down the hall._

_"Seems done to me," the Director utters with a sneer. He lowers back into his seat and presses his forehead to his palms, grumbles incoherently about stress._

_Carolina hesitates, careful about the direction of her piqued concern. "Is everything okay?"_

_"Just let her be. I'm alright."_

_"You haven't been alright in years."_

_The Director seems to consider that and he runs his thumb over the wedding band he keeps fastened to his neck with a silver chain. "Yes, I suppose that's true…"_

* * *

_Tex storms into the locker rooms and nearly throws herself down on the bench, hastily stripping off the upper layers of her obsidian armor so she can give herself room to breathe. The anger and guilt and remorse broils in her gut like the precipice of a hurricane. Omega latches curiously onto her emotions and her memories like a descending nightfall, quick and interested. Yet all she can think about is the Director, all she can think about is the accident._

_Kissing a four-year-old child on her forehead. Screaming and a frigid, consuming darkness._

_Tex launches her helmet across the room, impacts the wall with a resounding thunk, leaves an impressive dent in the metal material. Omega probes into her memory, follows the screaming and traces the cold borders of her mind. The most unforgiving of the fragments, it almost bothers her how he suddenly murmurs with concern and stimulates her nerves to ease her pain._

_"Fuck," she mutters, dropping her head into her hands._

_"Mind if I sit?"_

_She nearly jumps out of her own skin, glances up at Oregon holding her helmet under his arm. "Shit, Oregon. I'm not in the mood right now, okay? Just – we'll talk later."_

_He watches in mild fascination as she fumbles with the chest piece, a consistent dilemma they almost all have to deal with on a regular basis, depending on level of flexibility. He plants himself beside her, this tired, seething woman who honestly looks like she wants to tear something out of her own torso. And he likes that about her, raw passion and truth and emotion, like an endlessly looped film that has no distinct beginning or end, only scenes of life and death and sin and beauty. Slides his hand under the hem of the spine, finds the sensory clasp that's tangling with her thermal suit. "Then don't talk."_

_She quirks her eyebrow at him, wrangles out of her chest piece with sudden ease. "You're not going to ask me what's wrong?"_

_"What do I care? If you haven't put my head through a wall it clearly has nothing to do with me. At least, not directly, and I try not to involve myself in that kind of drama."_

_"Bullshit."_

_Oregon sets her previously tossed helmet between them. "So…What's your name?"_

_She blinks, gives him a quizzical look. "Why don't you just check the ship's personnel records?"_

_"Yours is restricted."_

_Tex exhales, completely forgot about that. "Right, right…It's Allison."_

_"That's a really nice name. Apparently my files don't have a lot of my information, but I guess the Director just never got around to it. Or whichever neglectful asshole fills in the documents." He pops off his helmet and shakes out his hair, follows her lead in gradually stripping away his armor in preparation for the cycle's end. "I'm Leonard, in case you didn't know that."_

_She did but she doesn't say it. Thinks about his private files and almost pities him. "Can I call you Leon?"_

_"Uh, sure, if you want to. I don't really give a shit."_

_"I just know a couple of Leonards already. You can be Leon Leonard."_

_"Whatever floats your boat." He nudges her playfully with his elbow. "So long as I can call you Allison."_

_"Eh, I prefer Tex."_

_"Do you?"_

_"I know a couple of Allisons too." She rubs at her ring finger absently, as if there was once something there. "Tex makes me unique."_

* * *

 

 

 

   

      

_Currently..._

   

   

  

Oregon awakens at some point during the early hours of the fifth cycle because Beta is stimulating him into consciousness. Her voice ebbs in frequency, builds with persistence to keep him steadily crawling out of his nightmares. He mumbles weakly in return, his body chilled from a cold sweat, the threadbare blanket burrito-wrapped around Tex snoring softly at his side.

He blinks wearily at the hazy ceiling above. Beta's voice reverberates through his mind but her words aren't yet coherent; his mind feels warped, scraping desperately into the contents of his fading dream, pushing aside Beta's urgency until the nails of his brain hit the bottom of nothing. Finally he pulls himself upright, plunging his hands into his hair to ease his throbbing headache.

_"Are you awake, Oregon?"_

"I am now," comes the slurry, irritated reply.

_"I just received a data message from FILLS. You're being called to the Main Deck for briefing."_

"Briefing?" He mutters, groaning with protest as he rolls out of bed. Tex utters something incoherent about stabbing someone and settles again, as if barely disturbed by his sudden movements.

Oregon throws on his military trousers and combat boots from yesterday, digs up a t-shirt from earlier in the cycle that smells like an icy cologne from spilling anesthetic fluid on himself in the medical ward (no thanks to Maine throwing a tantrum because he really, really hates needles). He finds his way into the Main Deck ten minutes later, scratching at his hair in vain attempt to tame it.

The Director is poised by the projection table, tabbing through files. Delaware, Virginia, and Nebraska are occupying either side of the hologram flat. Oregon traverses the room to the platform, takes the side opposing the Director. "Agent Oregon," the older man addresses without looking up.

"You'd better have a good reason for calling me at such ungodly hours."

"We are dropping out of slipspace in a few more days. Which means, I have an assignment for you." He gestures to the others who seem to be at attention, although Virginia keeps rubbing at her eyes and emits a small yawn. "As the only beta-lancer with an AI, you're going to be Captain for this mission."

Nebraska rolls his eyes but Oregon pretends not to notice.

The Director brings up a blue print file and the display map generates a small port area composed from compiled images. "To review, agent Oregon retrieved this drive from an Insurrection-controlled military island on Monolith. The only information I found of any value is the location of a warehouse on a recently colonized planet known as Lotus, located on a pier on the outskirts of a beach-side city."

"So you're gonna send us to check the warehouse out?"

"If there's something there, destroy it, and if there's nothing, you can come straight home. It will be a chance to prove yourself." The Director passes Oregon a stare that could freeze hell over, not that the Freelancer is fazed. "Assuming all goes well, of course."

"Got it."

"Very good. I expect you all here at oh-eight hundred hours after the tenth cycle is complete. You're dismissed."

Oregon is the first one out the door. He spends the cycle alleviating his anxiety through target practice.

   

   

   

   

  

The hours drag into the sixth cycle through to the seventh. More than half way through the trek through slipspace and he's already run out of things to do. He's taken several trips to the medical ward for injuries directly related to Tex, who seems to somehow get significantly more dangerous under the covers, but it didn't matter much given that he heals faster than a footprint in a tide pool.

He finds his way into the workout room, sees North, York, and Wash engaged in mild conversation about keeping up on exercise as they alternate among machines, and their respective AIs are chattering in their incoherent little language. Epsilon and Beta appear to join their siblings, earning Oregon a small wave from North and he nods in return. Delaware is on a rolled out mat across the room, her gaze wandering listlessly as she proceeds to finish another set of pushups.

She's in her crimson tank top that clashes with gray shorts and honestly, Oregon almost laughs. He thinks she would be a Freelancer a red team could hire for their simulation tests. And hell, why not? She's got plenty of potential. Despite being the youngest Freelancer at only eighteen, with years of training experience in military schools under her belt, she's worked her way up the board with ease. He's almost glad she retains her mild air of youth.

He brings up a worn purple mat from the corner and unfurls it next to her, planks himself on his palms and the balls of his feet. "What number are you at?"

"I don't remember, I think sixty something."

Oregon lowers himself down, pushes up with ease. "You say that like it's nothing." Delaware casts him a triumphant smirk before folding one arm behind her back and progressing into another set. Oregon rolls his eyes, lowers himself towards the floor. "You care if I ask you something?"

"Go ahead."

"You uh, you scared? Of running a mission?"

"I've run missions before."

For every one pushup Oregon completes she manages to breeze through two and he's almost winded simply by her stamina. "Yeah but, I've never been in charge of one. Does that bother you any?"

"Regardless of my answer, I'm not scared." She switches arms with relative ease. Her voice maintains its monotonous amusement despite the sweat trickling down the porcelain surface of her skin. "Nothing scares me."

" _Something_ has to scare you."

"Nope." She breathes, breathes again. "It's probably why I was picked for this job."

"I'm sure that's the only reason." He begins his next set after a breath of his own, adjusts his hands into fists so he can lower him on his base knuckles instead of his palms. "In that case, how well do you know Nebraska and Virginia?"

"We're not close. But they're close. At least, they used to be." Delaware huffs, as if suppressing a winded sigh. "I can't say I'm close to anyone on this ship, for that matter, aside from maybe Oklahoma when she's here. But from what I do know, Virginia is easy to work with. She'd take a hit for you."

"And Nebraska?"

Delaware pushes herself to her knees, stretches her arms across her chest. "He's brash, but he listens and follows commands. You don't have to worry about him in the field, he can separate emotions from professions."

"Good to know."

She swiftly moves across the mat and planks on his back, sliding her arms under his chest. Rests her cheek against the depression of his shoulders. Feels the AI chips through the thin material of his shirt. "Come on old man, catch up."

Oregon strains only a little under her weight but he restarts his set from a zero count. "Jesus you're heavier than you look. And where the fuck do you get off calling me old?"

She snorts. "Be thankful you're not as old as Wyoming."

"Keep this up and I'll haunt you when I die."

"If you're dying of old age, I'll at least get three years to prepare."

"I'll be surprised if I don't die in the next three minutes from cardiac arrest."

Her grip tightens on his chest. "Hey, Oregon?"

"Yeah Del?"

"Do _you_ fear anything?"

He ponders it for a moment, fixates his gaze on the definition of the muscles in his hands beneath him. Feeling human, the pulsing of her heart against his back and his blood thrumming more intensely. "Nothing I can think of."

"But you just said that everyone fears something."

"It's a bit different when there's few things in this world that can hurt you."

Del hums with thought. The vibrations rock through his shoulders like the distant engines. "So your fear must be something personal, or emotional even."

"…Maybe."

He becomes acutely aware of voices now, overlapping the vibrations of her gentle hum, the ship pulsing with energy, the activity of the other Freelancers across the room. His blood rushes to his ears, his muscles tense and unwind and tremble with exertion and he realizes the voices are gradually ebbing in intensity.

"Do you hear that?" he asks, and Del hums again.

"Hear what?"

He sees the five AIs conversing casually still – if conversing is what you can call it, they aren't moving yet they're communicating without words, but the other Freelancers don't seem to notice. Oregon shakes his head to alleviate the sudden pain.

"It's uh, nothing, forget it. Probably just the engines."

     

   

   

   

   

Oregon traverses the hall, his mind caught between the uncertainty of the mission in a few more cycles, and the unusual amount of stress (he's just going to go with that) taxing his mind. He's been lying to the Counselor lately about the increasing intensity of his nightmares, which might, now that he considers it, be directly correlated with his amounting anxiety towards the mystery around "Alpha". He almost considers mentioning to Rhodes that the AIs used to know who Alpha was. As if their memory storage was altered. Or maybe they're _lying_.

"Boo!"

Virginia's lower torso swings down to his level, her sapphire eyes gleaming with energy, red hair dyed with fades of pink. She's suspended from the overhead pipes leading to the decompression room to regulate oxygen, her legs hooked into the bars and her military trousers coated with smudges of dust.

Oregon quirks an eyebrow, gives her a small grin. "Oh no, you've got me. Scared me right out of my pants."

Virginia giggles, bops his nose with her forefinger. "What's up?"

"Clearly you. What in the hell are you doing?"

"Helping 'Braska clean the hull. He's stressed."

Oregon offers out his arms. "Get down before you hurt yourself. I don't want to be liable."

Virginia shrugs and hoists herself back up, rearranges her legs and drops down into his arms. He's still sore from pushups with Delaware (who wouldn't get off until he did ten sets and he might have passed out at some point) but he catches her with relative ease, sets her on the floor. "Thanks Oregon! I'm pretty sure I had it anyway, but 'Braska gets pissed when I do dangerous stuff."

"Speaking of the prick, where is he?"

"This a-way!" She grasps his hand and marches down the length of the corridor dragging Oregon behind her, around the corner to where Nebraska is scrubbing the floors with a mop. Virginia shoves Oregon towards him, raises her hands to her hips and grins.

Nebraska notices them, exhales. "I've already had seven people make comments. Don't ask, okay?"

"Clean all you like."

Nebraska seems taken aback for a moment. "Wait, you don't – literally everyone else complains when I clean the floors because I'm anal about where they step. Do you seriously not give a shit?"

"Nope."

"…Well, that's a relief. I figured I was about to sit through another lecture."

"Ginny says you're stressed," Oregon adds, glancing the other man once over. "Do you wanna talk about it?"

Nebraska's attitude shifts again. He rolls his eyes at Virginia and her smile drops into a frown, sets the mop against the wall, wipes his hands on his pants. "No, I don't. It's nothing."

"It's never _nothing_. You're chill, you don't get stressed out."

"I'm always stressed."

"Is it about the mission?"

"Lower tier Beta soldiers don't get sent on _missions_ , at least, not the missions the Alpha-lancers run. So yes, it's about the fact that we're being sent into the field on a serious matter for the first time in years. And _you_ "—he jabs Oregon's chest with his forefinger—"of all Freelancers, are leading the operation."

Oregon immediately scowls and his agitation flares. "The hell is _that_ supposed to mean?"

"I'd feel safer with a trained operative in the lead, not an under-achieving lower class wannabe."

"I am trained, the fuck do you know?"

"We've all seen your scores, and we've all heard the stories of every mission you've been on. When you aren't fucking up you're simply fucking around, and some people, like me, take this job seriously. Getting my leg up in the ranks is what I've always worked for and I don't need to risk everything I've strived to achieve crumble all because I got sent into the field with the Director's lap dog that's neither bark nor bite."

Oregon growls and takes a step forward in challenge but Virginia wedges herself between them, her hands on Nebraska's shoulders. "Okay, enough! Stop it Daniel, that's not fair to him."

Nebraska slaps her arms off. "Life's not fair, Ginny, otherwise I'd be the one topping that board and he wouldn't be running any missions at all."

"So you think you're better than me," Oregon hisses, feeling a sudden itch in his knuckles. Might just knock Nebraska the fuck out.

"I _am_ better than you. The only reason you get any recognition at all is because you're synched with two AIs instead of one, but the last time I checked agent Oregon, your name still isn't on that board. My run's been one hell of a ride and I don't need an AI to prove my worth."

"You talk some pretty big shit for a lower tier Beta soldier."

Nebraska scoffs, jabs his chest again. "I can beat you any day of the week."

"Fine! Get a slot and I'll kick your ass so hard you'll be scrubbing boot prints off your armor for weeks."

"Done! I'll see you tomorrow."

"Deal."

Virginia sighs as if she'll never understand the territorial attitudes of men. "Guys, come on, knock it off…we're all friends here."

"Shove off Ginny," Nebraska snaps, storming off down the hall. "Maybe if you asserted yourself some time you wouldn't be a forgettable Beta either."

As Nebraska disappears around the corner Virginia drops her gaze to the floor, prods a forefinger at the star tattoo on the back of her wrist. Oregon scoffs, feels his agitation finally alleviating. "I can see why you two didn't work out. He's a real asshole."

"Oh, you uh…" Virginia swallows awkwardly. "You know about that?"

"Delaware mentioned it in passing."

She wrings her hands together. "Yeah, he never used to be so uptight. I think the stress just got to him, you know?"

"Hey," Oregon starts, bringing his arm around her shoulders, "are you okay?"

She briskly pulls away from him, sticks her forefingers in the corners of her lips and pulls her expression into a wide smile. Is missing a lower tooth but that doesn't make her any less of a gorgeous person. "I'm alright! See, happy me, happy life!"

He considers reaching out again but he lowers his hands to his sides in defeat instead. She's strong on her own even with her fragile emotions. Has to be if she plans on surviving this job. "Don't force yourself to live behind a false smile, Ginny."

"You're right." She glances down the hall, bites her lip. "I should catch up with Nebraska and calm him down before he cleans his entire room again."

"God, what the actual hell is wrong with you? Stop making him happy! He doesn't deserve it!"

"I'm not trying to make him happy!" she snaps back, crossing her arms stubbornly when Oregon actually takes a half-step back. She exhales an exasperated sigh, shakes her head. "Nebraska's not really happy on his own, you know? Some people are just…tired, of trying and failing to find the place where they think they belong. Sometimes they need other people to tell them it's going to be okay. Sometimes they just need to know everything's going their way."

Oregon hesitates. Grinds his teeth. "I'm still gonna kick his ass."

"He knows you will. Don't you get that?"

He falls silent. Virginia offers him one last, reassuring smile before she starts off down the hall in Nebraska's wake, but there seems to be less of a bounce in her step.

   

   

   

   

   

"So if it doesn't go here and it doesn't go there, where the hell am I supposed to put it?"

"These guys did a really poor job of leaving us instructions."

Tex is in the main bay with a Rockethog hefted over her head as York reads over the information from the tablet's chart. The eighth cycle has been relatively quiet so they decided to volunteer for the task when the Director made the Freelancers the offer late yesterday, not that Tex particularly enjoys doing other people's jobs, but it would kill time and it would kill boredom all the same. (Alternatively, she now has access to vehicles that can be hurled at the Director to expel some of her pent up frustration.)

Omega and Delta hover beside her, observing the activity in fascination as she manages to lift a 3 ton machine with just her strength alone. "You're killing me York. I'm strong but it's still a goddamn _car_."

"Alright, alright, I'm trying my best to decipher this stupid – oh, here we go." York pads over to one of the empty plots between a Scorpion and Mongoose, gives her a thumbs up. "Right here."

As Tex sets the Rockethog down in the plot, Oregon enters the bay with his helmet tucked under his arm. He wastes no time in rushing up to meet them, a mildly perplexed look settled into his features. Despite always appearing irritated he seems more determined than usual and Tex braces herself for his imminent rant.

"Hey, Tex, can I ask you something?"

Oh. Not a rant, then. "Only if I get to ask why you're in your armor."

"You're in armor too."

"We're relocating vehicles," Tex replies matter-of-factly, punctuating her response by lifting the Scorpion tank over her head with a grunt. "So you really shouldn't be back here without the Director's permission."

Oregon rolls his eyes at her, turns his gaze to Omega and Delta still murmuring in what sounds like incoherent algorithm. "Shut up you inexpensive lightbulbs. I'll do what I want."

York and Tex exchange awkward glances because the AIs haven't said a word.

"Anyway," Oregon continues, "I'm heading over to spar with Nebraska and kick his ass for being a prick, but I can't hurt him too seriously because he's on my team for the mission in a few days."

" _You're_ leading a mission?" York retorts. "Really? Because the last one you were on went so well."

"I saved your bitch ass, didn't I?"

"You also made the twins take down the entire platoon by themselves."

"They were fine!"

"And they could have been hurt by your carelessness!"

"Don't sound so ungrateful."

"Hey!" Tex snaps, effectively silencing the room. "We're not going to fight while I'm holding this tank! Save that shit for the locker rooms."

Oregon returns his attention to the agent in black after a moment of lapsing quiet. "What's the best way to immobilize Nebraska and assert my dominance on the hierarchy without severely injuring him?"

"Aim for the outside of his knees and back of the shoulders. He'll be fine by the mission." She pauses, glances at him. "But really, Nebraska isn't all that bad. If you can reason with his logic, he'll open up to you just fine. You can't get people to respect you by beating them senseless when you don't get along."

York snorts. "Like you do?"

"First of all, shut up. Secondly, yes."

Oregon considers that for a moment. He reflects on yesterday, on Virginia and Nebraska and the updated ranks on the boards. Maybe he is going about this the wrong way, or in this case, the only way he knows how: physical violence. Which is now the wrong way. Ugh, whatever. "Shit, good point. You're the best."

"I know."

York gives her a skeptical look as Oregon swiftly exits the bay. "Are you two-?"

"Finish that question and I'm dropping this tank on you."

"Then my lips are sealed."

   

   

    

   

   

Delaware, Rhode Island, and Virginia are in the viewing room when Oregon finally enters the arena below. Nebraska has been standing at the right half of the field for the last half hour, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot, occasionally calling up to them about Oregon being a chicken shit. Now he waits peevishly, rubbing his fists with anticipation. Oregon doesn't say anything aside from: "Ready to start when you are, FILSS."

Carolina, much to everyone's immediate surprise, saunters through the door with a small frown plastered on her face.

"Carolina," Rhodes remarks. "What are you doing here?"

"Heard about the face-off, came to see Oregon get his ass kicked."

"Same," the other agent says. "Could really use the entertainment."

Virginia huffs, stands between them with her too small stature. She's not intimidating by any physical means but her scowl could probably rival a demonspawn's. "This isn't entertainment! This is _serious_ , one of them could get hurt!"

"I've got five on Oregon," Delaware motions and earns a glare from Ginny.

They gaze down at the field. FILSS calls out for the simulation session to begin and Nebraska raises his hands before his face, shifting his weight to the balls of his feet, ready to fight. But Oregon doesn't move. He doesn't seem interested in defending. He has his eyes fixed on Beta's schematics on the inside of his visor.

_Agent Nebraska: Physical 4.5 of 10, mental 9 of 10, intelligence 6 of 10, teamwork 8.5 of 10, weapons skill 4.5 of 10._

He pops off his helmet and tosses it to the floor with a melodramatic, extensive sigh. "Goddammit. Just hit me and get it over with."

Nebraska sets himself down, lowers his arms immediately. "Wait, what?"

"Go on." Oregon taps his right cheek like marking the weakest point on his face. "First few shots are yours. Hit me until you feel better."

The agent in green does a double take. "I'm not – I'm not doing that! Make it a fair fight!"

"But it's not a fair fight," Oregon replies, shrugging passively. "It's like you said, I have two AIs. You can't possibly beat me." This time his sigh is inaudible, distant and morose. "You and me…we're not on equal levels and maybe we never will be. But that doesn't mean you aren't capable of great things."

Nebraska holds his gaze with the intensity of a brewing lightning storm. "What the fuck are you trying to get at?"

"That I believe in you. I believe that you can achieve great heights, you can accomplish whatever you set your mind to because you're a determined motherfucker with a will of iron. Some people have the leg up because they're smarter or stronger or more experienced. I know that; I know that intelligence is measured in unfair fields and strength is associated with brawn instead of courage. But you aren't an idiot and you're brave, brave enough to stand up for yourself in the face of potential defeat."

"Suck my dick, bitch. You can't just…you don't _understand_ -!"

"I do understand." He raises his hands as he speaks and Epsilon and Beta over either of his shoulders. "AIs don't make a soldier, Nebraska; they don't judge a person based on morality and they don't repress an individual's strength for their own gain. They simply help us achieve what we need to accomplish. Sometimes we have to realize that we can still obtain our goals even without the same head start as everyone else, and that the AIs are only here to help us obtain them faster."

Nebraska scoffs. "What's your point?"

"I told Delaware that I don't fear anything but I lied. You're afraid you won't ever be good enough"—he presses one palm over his chest plate—"and I'm afraid of letting down the people who trust me. Who believe in me to be a soldier first and foremost, beyond the capabilities of my own worth and the assistance of the AIs. So trust me. Trust that you mean something to me and that I'm going to help you be far better than just good enough."

Nebraska glares at the floor but his anger gradually dissipates as the sentiment sets in. "You…really mean that?"

"I do. So no, I'm not going to fight you, Nebraska - I'm going to help you."

There's several prolonged seconds of muted silence. Nebraska stares intensely at the floor, seeking answers in the segmented panels, in the faint scratches from bullets and dropping armor. But then he brings his gaze back up to Oregon, reaches up with one arm and grasps the man's shoulder. Gives him a firm, reassuring squeeze. "Then I was wrong about you. I'm so sorry I was wrong about you."

"That's okay, you wouldn't be the first."

"Friends?"

Oregon nods, pats Nebraska's parallel shoulder. "Why the fuck not?"

"But you're still an asshole."

"Prick."

Virginia grins, claps her hands together and then wraps her arms around Delaware's neck. Rhodes exhales her held breath, as if she was expecting this to end in cataclysms and fire.

Carolina just smiles.

She thinks that Oregon reminds her of someone.

   

   

   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you get the chance, you should check out my new story "Storm Front"!


	6. Mission Four: Not Warehouse 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maine finally gets screen time, Oregon runs his mission.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *reads through the RVB book* The real agent Delaware blew herself up at High Ground (the simulation outpost Church was stationed at for 14 months). Good thing this is an AU, amirite?
> 
> Also, pour one out for the readers who thought this chapter was going to have a happy ending.
> 
> Disclaimer: I suck at science, forgive any and all medical and scientific inaccuracies.

   

    

[Mission FOUR: Not Warehouse 13]

    

    

     

Oregon lets the heat of the water barrel down his back and soothe the ache of poor sleep from his muscles (it also burns the scratches Tex has left on his shoulders but he doesn’t mind as much as he says he does). The droplets catch on the implants in his neck, roll over the depressions of his body; he leans back against the frigid tile of the divider wall and curses when the burn strengthens like a fresh wound.

Next to him he can hear Wash muttering about having soap in his eye, two stalls down he recognizes another faucet switching off. Breathes and wishes he was alone today.

He awoke this cycle as he does most days now, weary from a nightmare that makes little sense with his AI hovering curiously over him. She had stimulated him with her hazy burn like a campfire’s smoke and he wonders for a moment if he’ll ever adjust to the sensation, if he’ll ever adjust to having another voice inside his head. Or in this case, _voices_.

The unusual voices that have been haunting him with increasing intensity are sedated when he’s furthest away from the other AIs, which has led to his three conclusions: 1) the voices are from the other AIs and supporting two of the fragments has made him more sensitive to their conversions; 2) ghosts are real, they hate him in particular, and it has nothing to do with AIs at all; 3) he’s officially going insane.

He rinses the shampoo from his hair, sighs. Although he reasons that he could pull his fragments for a night it definitely wouldn’t help him sleep any better, not when Beta is his only barricade between reality and fiction, and especially not when Epsilon regulates the memories in his system like managing codes.

 _Maybe the dreams mean something_ , Epsilon has said before. Because sometimes he dreams and sometimes the memories return as dreams and more often than not, everything feels like one jumbled nightmare.

Oregon turns off the water and finds the towel suspended on a hook on the outside of the stall, wraps it delicately around his waist. Wash trots by him with a brief good morning, sporting scars from bullets and freckles bridging from his face down his shoulders like a waterfall, the burn scar on the left side of his ribs from the mission to retrieve the Sarcophagus. Oregon glares down at his torso at the thought, at his hands, unscarred and blissfully kempt.

_Maybe the memories mean something…_

He navigates his way into the men’s side of the shower locker room, still groggy from little sleep, and pops open his armor locker. He recognizes South and Delaware conversing about uninhabitable planets across the way, spots York and North suiting up on the benches.

“Can’t wait for the upgrades,” York remarks as he slides his chest gear into place. “I’m thinking I’ll go for a more stellar gold next time.”

“You think we’ll get them in the first wave?” North assumes, setting his helmet into place. “They’d probably want us to see how the AIs handle the new suits.”

The two disappear around the corner several seconds later and Oregon towels himself off. He slips into his undersuit with ease just as a familiar voice travels over the acute rustling of activity in the room.

“Coffee?”

He glances over at Nebraska already suited up, gesturing out with a thermos in one hand and his helmet clutched in the other. Oregon ruffles his hair with the towel, tosses it on the bench. “What kind?”

“Black, three sugars.”

“Why the fuck not,” he says, accepts the drink. He takes a sip, takes a gulp and passes it back. “Ugh, better.”

“Good, it’s laced with cyanide.”

“You afforded a high-end poison just to kill me? I’m flattered. Maybe you can take me to a fancy dinner while you’re at it.”

Nebraska laughs and finishes the coffee, sets the thermos in his locker to be cleaned later.

Oregon quirks an eyebrow. “What has you so uppity today? Finally pulled that stick from your ass?”

“Ginny and I talked a bit yesterday, we might try to work things out. I want to be a better person, she wants to be more mature”—he lifts up his helmet from the lower shelf—“and maybe the best way is to do that together.”

“That’s…” Oregon pops open his locker to fish out his comb. “That’s really cool, actually.”

Nebraska sets his helmet in place, turns to the Freelancer struggling to detangle his ends. “You ever been in love? It’s something else entirely.”

Oregon’s gaze diverts to the picture of Tex he keeps pinned up to the inside of his locker door, taken after a long day of combat training, received from Virginia who was messing around with her HUD’s camera. Has a copy in his other locker in the training room too. In her armor she’s fierce and angelic and terrifying, but still he elicits nothing more than a scoff. “I bet it is.”

He runs his comb through his thick locks, tames it, wonders how much gel Nebraska uses to keep the curls in his hair from tangling like vines.

“I guess I can be frank with you, since we’re friends now and all.”

Oregon glances at Nebraska, returns to combing his hair. “Don’t think I’m going to fall for your sappy brothers-in-arms bullshit. There’s a fine line between virtue and death and both are rectified by a person’s level of patience.”

“Just between you and me, this mission’s already giving me chest pains.”

“Nervous?”

“Only a bit. You know when you feel like something bad is going to happen?”

This time Oregon laughs, but it’s harsh and belittling and there’s nothing funny about it at all. “We’re fucking _Freelancers_ , dude.” He chucks the comb into the lower shelves, hears it ricochet off his hip guards. “When does shit ever go _well_?”

The office is distilled by silence, even with the presence of four beta-lancers poised across the table from the Director. Although the blue prints and compiled images of the warehouse and its amounted information have been displayed again for reference, Oregon doesn’t bother to give them a second glimpse. Virginia waves her hand through a building with a childish wonder before Oregon pulls her arm back down to her side.

“You understand your assignment,” the Director remarks, concluding his reiterative summary of their mission. Get into the warehouse, find what’s inside, return to the MoI in as little time as possible.

“Got it,” Oregon replies, hefting the sniper rifle over his shoulder so it maglocks to his back.

“Do be aware, agent Oregon, that I am in the business of getting results and progressing at all costs. Do _not_ compromise the mission with careless actions, do _not_ involve yourself with engaging the enemy forces should you find any, and in the highly unlikely event that the situation take a grim turn, immediately fall back and wait for further instructions. I cannot afford to lose any other Freelancers to misdirected judgments in the field.”

“Yeah yeah yeah, I got it.”

The Director gives the Freelancer his typical, omnipotent scowl.

Oregon turns his gaze to the Counselor who’s silently watching them, returns to the Director and grits his teeth together. “I got it, _sir_. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it and we’ll be home before you can call shotgun.”

“So will we have backup?” Nebraska asks.

“What kind of question is that?” Oregon shoots back. “Why the fuck will we need backup?”

“Look, I know we’ve already set aside our differences but that doesn’t mean I have faith in your abilities.”

“Ass.”

“I anticipate that you will be able to complete this mission without reinforcements,” the Director responds blatantly. “I will, however, have agents Texas and Maine on standby in the event of an emergency. I do not expect resistance from the rebellion forces, but it always pays to be prepared.”

“There’s four of us,” Delaware states. “We can handle a few enemies just fine.”

“You are under-classed _beta_ -lancers.”

“What the Director _means_ ,” the Counselor interjects, “is that you do not have the same field equipment or AI assistance as the other Freelancers. Your well-being is at a greater risk without these advancements – and it is as the Director said, we cannot afford to lose any more of you at this stage of the Project.”

Oregon would scoff but he isn’t keen on getting under the Director’s skin. Not today, at least. “We understand, sir.”

The Director passes the Counselor a blank, almost unreadable look as he taps the END SESSION log on the screen and the projected maps collapse back into the table’s surface. “This discussion is concluded. You’re dismissed. Meet four-seven-niner in the bay for your scheduled drop into the city.”

The Freelancers file out the door with Oregon in the lead.

The Counselor glances at the Director now, but he knows better than to voice yet another opinion on the pre-calculated probabilities of the mission’s failure.

On what will happen if this is really nothing more than a trap.

     

    

     

   

At the same time, CT is alone in the communications room with her gaze fixated curiously on the familiar face on the other screen. Even though she would prefer to talk to the guy in charge she settles for this other soldier instead, the painted heart on her chest piece, splint ends from unkempt hair. CT wants to say she’s irritated with having to pass her information through other people, but at the very least the Insurrectionists are trustworthy to _that_ degree.

“They’re coming your way,” CT remarks when she glances out the far window and sees Oregon’s group pass down the corridor. “Did you evacuate yet?”

 _“Of course we did,_ and _we left our guests a little welcoming gift.”_

“Make sure Oregon does _not_ survive. He’s crucial for the further development of this project and if we can off him we’ll-”

_“We know the plan, you traitorous bitch. Now shut up so we can do our part of the job.”_

CT grinds her jaw shut, leans her hand against the transmission end icon. “Don’t fuck it up, then. Gotta go.”

_“How about you start pulling some weight around here you stupid-!”_

CT ends the call.

     

    

      

   

Oregon’s team crosses the hatch of the carrier and they take their seats on either side of the ship. Virginia plops herself down, swings her legs like she’s about to take off in a carnival ride and giggles when Nebraska tells her to buckle in. He lowers the harness for her, flushes when she pats the spot next to her and gladly occupies it.

Oregon grasps the top of Delaware’s helmet, keeping her from banging her head against the rail guards. He makes an off-handed comment of, “Watch it kiddo,” but directs his attention to 479er as she paces by them and disappears into the cockpit. He follows her in just as she slides comfortably into her seat, reaching across the control panels to flip several switches.

“Sup?” Oregon chirps.

“Hey man.” She knocks knuckles with him when he makes the gesture. “Good to see you too, Oregon. Ready to drop?”

He hoists himself into the co-pilot’s perch, scoffs under his breath. “ _Please_. I was born to get this stupid mission over with.”

“He just wants to come home and bang Tex!”

“Shut the fuck up Nebraska!” Oregon snaps back, turning to his panel.

Delaware’s call drifts into the cockpit next. “Everyone knows already! York can’t keep his mouth shut for shit!”

479er snorts, switches on the ship’s thrusters. “You and Tex, huh? How exactly did you manage to swoon over someone made entirely out of shards of glass and rusty knives?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he replies quickly, tabbing through the mission details.

The ship trembles as it jolts up above the landing and careens into the sky. It helps keep the following silence from growing awkward.

     

     

    

      

The warehouse is a two story structure on the edges of a dock where a ship could have been making deliveries, yet it’s vacant. There aren’t any cars or miscellaneous materials that would signify that it’s been used recently, and upon initial sweep of its exterior, they don’t find anything that would lead them to believe the Insurrectionists were utilizing this place at all.

“I found a barrel of spoiled meat,” Delaware says as she regroups with them at the warehouse’s only entrance on the east side. “Unless they were baiting out sharks, I doubt they were doing much.”

“You wanna call it?” Nebraska assumes.

Oregon shakes his head. “Let’s sweep around inside first. As much as I hate wasting time I want to be thorough. There has to be _something_ here.”

He takes point and hauls open the unhatched door of the warehouse, guides them into the awaiting unknown.

The inner building is illuminated by the sunlight streaming through the windows, highlighting crates and support pillars and overhead walkways. Delaware kicks a wooden crate over and vials of liquid spill across the floor among foam package stuffing. She kneels down to pick up a vial that managed not to shatter, reads the label.

“It’s a distilled protein,” she reports, tossing Oregon the glass cylinder.

“Distilled protein?” Virginia asks.

“It’s for lab use,” Oregon answers, turning it over in his hand. “Researchers can use it to inject into dying tissue to restart it before decay sets in. It’s not very effective by itself, but when combined with other enzymes it creates regenerative properties. Small quantities are in York’s healing unit and the biofoam in medical kits.”

“So they _were_ doing something in here,” Nebraska concludes, leaning over Oregon’s shoulder to glimpse the protein over.

“No way to tell. This could be a shipment storage facility for all we know.”

Nebraska pads over to the crate, sweeps around a bit to read the labels on the others. “These are all marked the same, but there’s no return address or delivery point. What the hell do they need with so much protein?”

“I vote we blow this place up,” Delaware voices.

“And I’m the explosives expert,” Virginia adds, eagerly thumbing at her grenade belt.

“And by explosives expert she means pyromaniac with access to explosives weapons,” Nebraska interjects. “…It is only now that I realize the severe lack of supervision in the facility and I’m going to have to file a complaint.”

“Poor safety regulations aside, nothing can withstand a blast of any magnitude.”

There’s a momentary pause before Epsilon appears over Oregon’s shoulder and speaks up, _“I heard cockroaches can survive atomic bombs.”_

A rupturing, hollowed scream bellows out from the furthest abysmal darkness of the warehouse. It eerily resembles a human shriek with the undermining roar of a feral animal and a trumpeting beast. The Freelancers aim instinctively for the bay door shutting off a cargo crate beneath the overhanging walkway, as the rotating crimson alarm light on its edge refracts over the segmented metal slab, and it rumbles when something presses against the other side. An acute screech erupts from within, like nails on a chalkboard.

“Oregon?” Delaware mutters, her pistols trembling in both hands. “I think we’ve overstayed our welcome.”

“It’s alright Del,” Nebraska says placidly despite the death grip on his assault rifle.

The door is labeled with EX-TS-14B in thick black paint that has dried in drips like old blood. Oregon feels his gut sink, his heart drop, the adrenaline surge. “Fuck this, we’re leaving. _Now_. Something’s not right and I don’t plan on finding out what’s behind that-”

The shutters explode outwards in a sudden flurry of debris, sending the panel sailing towards the Freelancers. “DOOR!” Delaware exclaims and they all dive to avoid it as it impacts the far wall. Virginia is the closest to the newly exposed room and raises her gun to the monstrosity poised in the eclipsing darkness.

It’s a hulking creature that might have been human, nearly twice the size of a bear with an upper torso stitched into a large metal casing that’s featureless aside from the slots that might house its eyes, like a helmet that arcs down into the chest. Most of its body below the collar is repurposed with stitches and cheap grade parts. It’s some kind of cyborg, hairless, features contorted with scars and exaggerated proportions and arms so obtusely massive they almost drag against the floor.

One hand is complete metal, sharpened into claws with segments of iron that dig into the flesh along its forearm, as if straining to remain attached; the legs are backwards at the knee caps, feet replaced by metal construction with flattened ends, like hooves. The other arm is cut off at the elbow and extends into hefty forearm gear that brinks out into a blade curved slightly inwards.

It’s almost demonic.

It hisses through the smaller ports in its helmet, scrapes the blade against the concrete of the floor, turning its veiled gaze to the soldiers across the room. “Nobody move,” Oregon whispers, raising his rifle gradually. “On my mark, empty your clips. Synch?”

“Synch,” they reply in muted harmony.

The monster rises up completely, _groans_. The noise sounds like a cross between a hallowed moan and creaking wood, like something straight out of a horror movie, blood-curdling and ominous. Its body suddenly jerks towards Oregon.

“Aaa _aaa_ ll”—it wheezes out a breath, sounds like a broken radiator despite its distinctly human tone, and raises its claws in his direction—“phhaaa _aaa_.”

**_“MARK!”_ **

They unleash a hailstorm of bullets, rendering through its flesh. Some of their rounds ricochet off of its plating, its helmet, its arm – and it screams in pain, bringing its blade towards its slotted ports to defend against the assault. As their weapons click empty it rears its body forwards and _screeches_ , a shrill, ear-splitting sound that rips through their heads like a megaphone and drops them to their knees in agony, their own screams drowned out by the overwhelming intensity of the noise.

The monster launches up in their distraction –

And it slams down on Virginia, crushing her into the floor with all its weight and driving its hefty blade straight through her visor. Her spine audibly cracks as it cripples under the force and her neck twists at an entirely separate angle. She’s dead on impact.

And just like that, the mission falls apart.

Oregon regains himself almost instinctively. The sheer terror rips through him with such audacity he nearly crumbles into immediate panic. His mind races, heart pounding in his chest, barely recognizes Nebraska screaming for Virginia and Delaware reloading her guns, every last bit of courage inherited by leadership diminishing into a sudden disarray of incoherent noises. Beta recognizes his stress and he feels that familiar twinge of heat in his spine, fanning into the back of his head like wispy smoke, consuming his panic and replacing it with proper thoughts.

“SPREAD OUT!” He shouts, throwing himself over a crate as the monster lunges for him, slamming its blade down into the spot he had been only a split second prior.

Nebraska distracts it momentarily with his rapid gunfire, shredding into the creature’s toughened hide. Oregon takes the opportunity to switch on a distress call for the Director’s office, where he knows his back-up soldiers – and most importantly, the Director – will be.

     

     

     

      

The transmission comes in with urgency and the Director turns away from Texas and Maine to activate it. The coordinates are from the docks, from the warehouse; he hits the confirmation key, opens the channel.

“Agent Oregon, repo-”

_“Virginia’s down! VIRGINIA IS FUCKING DOWN!”_

“What?!” The Director snaps back. “What in the hell is going on?!”

 _“IT WAS A SET UP!”_ Oregon exclaims over a multitude of voices shouting in the background. There’s a horrifying howl from the other end of the line, like some kind of wild animal has broken into the room. _“SHIT! Del, it’s heading your way!”_

“ _What the fuck is that thing?!”_

_“RELOADING!”_

_“We’re gonna die! We’re gonna seriously fucking **die**!”_

“We need evac now!” Oregon snaps, swiftly sprinting out of his hiding spot when the monster smashes through the crates. “Goddammit!” He twists and fires, bullets piercing into the thing’s thick hide. It howls, charges at him, crashing through support pillars and boxes and oil canisters. Oregon manages to tuck and roll once more but this time the creature anticipates him and pivots, swinging its arm around and back-handing him through the nearest structural support. He crashes through the wall and lands on the boardwalk outside, momentarily losing consciousness from the force of the blow.

_“Oregon, respond! Tell me what is happening, goddammit!”_

He operates on instinct, works his way back up to his feet. “The rebels knew we were coming!” he barks into the intercom, ejecting the empty clip of his rifle and loading a fresh one. “They left us some goddamn science experiment and it killed Virginia!”

_“Get as far away from it as you can! I’m sending emergency aid!”_

_“We’re on our way!”_ Tex adds.

“Hurry up!”

He sprints back inside just as the monster throws itself onto an overhead walkway. “We’re getting out of here!” He calls out to his team, firing a bullet at the creature above. His shot goes wide, aim dwindling under the stress and the fear and adrenaline, hands trembling. It shrieks again, jumping down and swinging for Delaware, who sprints out of its path. It careens around when Nebraska fires at it from behind and punches its blade through his chest, skewering him against the wall.

“NO!” Delaware screams, doesn’t anticipate the monster to react to her shout by throwing Nebraska’s corpse in her direction. She collapses on her back as the weight of the body slams her into the floor, exploding blood from the massive wound across her visor.

She attempts to roll out from under him, wipes desperately at the thickness of the liquid clinging to her visual. “Oregon?! Oregon, I can’t see, I _can’t_ – where is it?!”

“DEL!”

It lumbers up to her swiftly and in large strides, swinging its blade towards her head. Oregon fires off another round in sheer desperation, managing to nail the monster in its helmet but the bullet ricochets with ease. The monster gorges her open from the chest down on an angle across her waist, cleaving a gash through layers of flesh and muscle, exposing her inner organs like a blossoming flower.

**_“NOOO!”_ **

The monster faces him when it recognizes his voice. Oregon pops the pin on his blinder grenade and throws it, nailing the monster in its head. The bomb explodes, sending the creature into a blind panic. It claws at its own face in attempt to rip the gunk from its helmet’s slots.

He sprints over to Delaware collapsing to her knees, clutching absently at her torso to keep her upright. The monster rams its head into a support beam, again and again, breaking off the foam.

Oregon hefts Delaware onto his back, nearly slipping his grasp on her body when her blood makes his armor dangerously slick. He makes it to the drop off point at the maw of the docks outside, sets her gently down on the boards. He pops off her helmet. Her dark bangs fan out against the plain of her forehead, sticking to the sweat and the blood that’s spilling from her lips. Jesus, all that _blood_. It’s _everywhere_ , on his back, his chest; he tries to apply pressure to her injury, is only acting on pure reflex now, gets more on his hands.

“Oregon…”

“I’m here Del.”

The blood trickles out when she coughs. Wheezes out a breath. “I’m scared.”

“No, no, it’s okay. I’m here. You won’t die just…just hang on, okay? Help’s coming. _Help’s coming_.” Her eyes roll back into her head, her breaths coming as fading gasps. “Fucking _shit_ ,” he utters, slapping at her cheek to keep her awake, to keep her fucking _alive_. “Stay with me Del! Stay the fuck awake!”

She falls still.

“No, no no,” he presses his ear to her chest. There’s an ominous quiet. “ _Nono **no**_ – fuck! DEL! DELAWARE!” He shakes her vehemently, returns his ear to her chest, doesn’t hear the heartbeat. “Shit – shit shit shit **_fuck_**!”

The monster saunters out of the gaping hole in the wall and its weight jolts the dock with every step, its blade catching on the ends of the boards as it drags its arms. Oregon is panicking, still pressing on Delaware’s chest, begging and pleading and having a near goddamn break down. She’s _dead_. They’re all _dead_.

_And he’s going to die._

“FUCK!” He slams his fists into the floor, hammers them down until his fists are threatening to shatter under the impact. “Dammit! Shit! Fuck this whole fucking piece of shit goddamn _mission_!”

The monster growls, beckons to him from across the way with that horrifying, soulless voice. “A _aaaa_ lphha _aaaa_.”

“Who the fuck is Alpha?!” He snaps, rising back to his feet, bringing his rifle up to the creature’s helmet. He fires several rounds that bounce easily off its guard, barely fazing the beast as it stomps towards him gradually, gaining ground with every extensive step.

“A _aaaa_ lphh **a _aaaa_.”**

“Beta!”

The soldier in black materializes. _“I sensed your distress. I’m here.”_

“What am I up against?”

She scans and analyzes the monster, turns back to him. _“Undefined. My results are coming back without statistics.”_

The monster is within range now, cornering him off at the edge of the dock as he backs away to cover what little ground he has left. He fires off another round but it deflects off the helmet guard, and this time the beast isn’t bothered at all.

“Beta, when they find you and Epsilon, tell Tex I’m sorry.”

_“For what?”_

“For everything.”

It draws up over him, a shadow against the glare of the sun. Its hand moves forward towards Oregon’s visor, claws flexing outwards, its groan like a guttural hiss.

“A _aaaa_ lph _aa **AAAAA**_.”

_“Leon!”_

He recognizes Tex’s shout in his intercom just as the drop ship hurtles through the air overhead, its hatch collapsed open to give Tex and Maine the jump. Maine throws a grenade that explodes against the back of the monster’s helmet, consuming the upper half of its torso in the same armor-locking foam that they use in emergencies and in training. They leap out of the back in synch, landing easily on the other end of the dock. The carrier pulls up and out of sight.

“It’s about time,” Oregon says as he rushes over to meet them, his words trembling with relief. “I was about to have Beta prepare a eulogy.”

“Are you alright?” Tex asks, her palms pressing to his helmet.

“Probably not.”

Tex and Maine careen to the side as the dock shakes. The foam is crumbling from the monster’s face but it’s unfazed, begins to tromp towards them in a renewed rage. “So on another note,” Tex starts, gesturing to the creature, “what exactly _is_ that?”

“I have no fucking idea, but that bastard slaughtered my team!”

 _“Might I suggest killing it?”_ Sigma remarks, appearing beside Maine, who merely grunts. _“It is a dangerous creation, is it not? We cannot allow it to live.”_

“I’m way ahead of you Sig. Beta!”

_“I’m here.”_

“Are you ready to exact some goddamn revenge and teach these bastards who the _fuck_ they messed with?”

_“With pleasure.”_

Tex recognizes the sudden change in his demeanor, how his despair has suddenly ebbed into an overly ambitious rage all with a single remark from Sigma. She steps before him, her hands raised to push against his chest. “No! Oregon, stop!”

“Either help me or get out of my way Tex,” he seethes, brushing by her, “because this shit ends right fucking now!”

Tex grapples his arm, tugs him to face her. “You have to stop this,” she demands, “this anger, this need for revenge and for order – it’s going to get you _killed_. You have to think this through before this thing grinds us into meat!”

“Then _help_ me.”

She reluctantly releases him, gesturing to the largest member of their group. “Maine, you okay to fight?”

He grunts, nods, drawing his uniquely signature weapon from its maglocked position on his back.

“Good! We’re going to distract it,” Tex says, moving forward. “We need to find its weaknesses and we have to do it fast.”

“Wait, Tex, let me distract it! If something happens to you again because of me, I won’t-!”

“Forgive yourself? Yeah, I know how that goes. But you know I can handle myself.”

Oregon locks his sniper rifle to his back and sighs. “Okay. Let’s go Beta.”

They square off across from the mechanic beast, this horrifying monstrosity that had been three different people and several kinds of machine at one point.

It hurls its disfigured mass in Tex’s direction.

Maine pumps is exposed flesh with rifle rounds that sever layers of wire and muscle, and Tex swiftly dodges every thrown punch or claw swipe. Oregon becomes its primary target when the other agents duck out of its immediate range. The monster swings its blade down, aiming for his head.

“Beta!”

_“Augmentation replicated!”_

Tex’s strength surges through his suit and he catches the flat of the blade with ease in one hand, grasps the other arm as it’s thrown at him too. The brutal power in the monster’s crippling strength overwhelms him, gradually lowering him down on one knee. Oregon’s wrists threaten to fracture beneath the force but he holds steady, hearing Beta’s muted countdown in the back of his mind.

Tex rushes up behind him and kicks off his shoulder, ramming her knee into the monster’s face and sending it sailing backwards, crashing to the ground.

Maine launches up and swings his blade down but the creature’s arm rockets up and slaps him back. He collapses into Oregon, drives them into a set of barrels that explode into wooden splinters and glass. Maine grunts what could pass as an apology.

 _“There has to be something we can do!”_ Epsilon remarks as his partner briskly recovers.

 _“Allow me,”_ Sigma begins, appearing before Oregon. _“The creature bleeds like a living person. It seems to have a tough exterior, but that means that the inside must still be fragile in order for it to survive.”_

Oregon knows exactly what to do. “You’re a genius, thanks Sig.”

_“You are the only one who agrees with my sentiments, aside from agent Maine, of course.”_

“Stall it again,” Oregon says to Tex and Maine, rushing towards the warehouse. He leaves them to divert the creature’s attention and locates Virginia’s body in the building, her entire structure twisted at odd, broken angles. Gives her no second thought as he unhinges her grenade belt and returns outside.

Tex is thrown across the way but lands on her feet, and Maine fires the remaining rifle rounds into its torso. It howls, rips a post from the ground and lobs it across the way. Maine clears out a split second before the impact, rushing forward and driving the blade into the creature’s chest beside the meld of its helmet. He tears the weapon free, is knocked aside by its swinging arm.

Oregon takes the beast’s distracted opportunity; he leaps up, clutching onto the monster’s scarred back with a vice-like grip. He drives his fist downwards into the stitches under the ribs, shoving the belt of grenades into its lower body among organs. Barely registers the creature grasping at his back to rip him off.

Its claws catch on the back of his armor and swing him around, sending him sailing several yards across the walk; he smashes into the side of the building, tumbles to the ground but manages to push himself upright. Maine and Tex realize what’s in Oregon’s hands and they scatter.

The monster glares at him now, howling and raging and murderous.

**“AA _AAAA_ LPHAAA _AAA_!”**

Oregon raises the several popped grenade pins, presents his middle fingers.

“Choke on my dick, bitch!”

The explosion rips the monster apart and subsequently blows him through the wall of the warehouse. The impact knocks the wind out of him, temporarily throwing his world into a hazy darkness, muting his reality into nothing more than a screaming, dying white noise.

     

    

       

     

Tex is over him when he blinks, when his worlds fades in once more and the ringing in his ears has finally settled. Something flashes before him, maybe a memory, maybe something more – that girl with red hair, blood on his hands, screaming and maybe he’s just dreaming again.

 _“Oregon?”_ Beta whispers. Smoke in his mind, fire along his spine.

 _“Oregon!”_ Epsilon calls. Grasping for ice.

“I’m okay, I’m okay…just…” He pushes himself off the floor, rubs the back of his head. The spinning ceases as he stabilizes in reality. “Fuck, did I get him?”

Tex glances over her shoulder at the pieces of viscera still dropping out of the sky, and the charred remains littered along the ground.

“Oh yeah. He’s not getting up from that one.”

 

* * *

 

   

    

   

Collecting the bodies is the worst part.

Virginia’s spine is a shattered disarray of bones that crack sickeningly when Oregon peels her out of the crater in the floor, dislocated neck joints popping audibly. Blood leaks out of the breaks in the helmet’s visor, drips on his armor, staining red on blue. He sets her down beside Delaware on the carrier just as Tex lowers Nebraska’s corpse and wipes some dust away from the helmet. “Sorry about that kid,” she utters, “you had a good run.”

Maine growls about something but Sigma doesn’t bother to translate for him. Nothing can ease the situation regardless.

The return flight is silent, even as 479er tries to spark a conversation with Oregon when he sets himself in the co-pilot’s perch. Doesn’t bother to comment on the blood staining the sky blue armor a sickening crimson. He just taps away at the information and the roster and the details, searching for something he didn’t miss but might have missed. He had to have missed something.

At some point she gives up.

And the docking is the eeriest. By now wind of the mission’s dreadful success has reached the others and Oregon’s none too surprised when the hatch splits away and descends to reveal agent Carolina with a medical team half-mooned around the landing strip.

“Oregon!” Carolina exclaims as the surviving trio pass into range. He passes her, doesn’t seem intent on responding. “What the hell happened on that mission? _Oregon_. Oregon, answer me!”

“It was a massacre!” he snaps back, his anger finally flaring to the surface. “It didn’t matter that we were _equipped_ , it didn’t matter that we were _enhanced_ , none of our intensive training fucking _mattered_ , Carolina! They knew were we coming and they knew we couldn’t handle it! We were sent to the goddamn _slaughterhouse_!”

“Agent Oregon.”

The Director is near the exit, his hands folded placidly behind his back. His expression is unreadable, perhaps just blank, and his very presence commands total attention and silence in the room. “Agent Texas,” he continues, “Agent Maine. I want to see you in the debriefing room. _Now_. Agent Carolina, assist the personnel in moving the bodies so we can ship them home.”

“Yes, sir.”

Oregon holds Carolina’s intense gaze for a moment longer before he feels Tex grasp his shoulder, guiding him away from the scene. “Stop it, let’s go.”

He doesn’t bother to mention how his collarbone had been broken before the flight began.

    

    

    

    

“It was nothing more than some failed experiment,” the Director says, and Oregon snaps back into reality. “Many major programs as of late are trying to replicate their own version of a perfect weapon, and what you just went against was nothing more than a prototype. I would _not_ have sent you into that if I had known.”

“They created a monster,” Oregon utters.

“They did. And although agents Nebraska, Delaware, and Virginia were killed, the hunt for the Insurrectionist’s leader must continue – both for the sake of those they’re mutilating and those they plan to hurt when they create their monsters.”

“You think they made more?” Tex asks.

“I wouldn’t doubt it agent Texas, but to be fair, experiments of any kind are quite”—the Director glances at the board, turns back to them—“ _costly_. And rebels rarely have government funding to support such efforts.”

Oregon absently scrapes at the blood that’s dried on his armor. The board updates behind the Director. Gives Texas and Maine several points. Oregon gets ten, the biggest achievement offered at any one time, which lifts him up above CT. Nebraska’s name highlights in red and slides off, followed by Virginia’s, and finally Delaware’s, allowing Rhode Island’s tag that free boost, right under Florida.

Oregon continues to scrape until Tex reaches over and grasps his hand, shaking her head. He thinks his armor might have been blue before this, but it’s difficult to tell. Difficult to remember.

The Director presses his lips together, glimpsing Oregon twice over. “Agent Oregon, take a shower. I’ll have someone clean your armor for you.”

“Come to my office next cycle,” the Counselor says, finally speaking up after remaining eerily silent. “I must evaluate your standing after the trauma of the mission. I do hope you understand my concern, agent Oregon.”

 _Fuck you and your evaluations,_ Oregon thinks but he doesn’t say it because he’s still trying to wipe off all this fucking blood.

The Director speaks up again. “Good work agents. You’re dismissed.”

They salute.

Oregon’s silent, scratches at the blood. He thinks his armor might have been blue.

It’s hard to remember.

    

    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sits on my throne* The comment section is open for your raging pleasure. Prepare your calligraphy pens.


	7. Mission Five: Recovery Blues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oregon struggles. A lot. With a lot.

    

     

_“Who is Alpha? Why can’t we remember Alpha?”_

Oregon awakens because the voices are a multitude of whispers progressively consuming the edges of his sleep. For a while he lies staring up at the ceiling, at the projections of the AIs as they appear one after another, Beta and Epsilon and Theta, the twins and then Gamma, Delta and finally Omega.

_“Who is Alpha?”_

Among them are smaller fragments of other colors, hazy images that haven’t taken form, perhaps other parts of this Alpha they can no longer remember.

_“Why can’t we remember Alpha?”_

A blazing hand grasps his throat and he glances over in awe at Sigma.

**_“Come back to us, Alpha.”_ **

When Oregon awakens from the nightmare it’s to Beta’s stimulation, but just as soon as he’s stirred he drifts gradually back to sleep, already forgetting the weighted contents of the memory like it’s nothing more than a typical passing dream. Beta has already logged back off when Epsilon senses the distress. So he remains active, watching and recording and listening to the transmissions of his siblings from elsewhere in the base, coded 64-bit phrases like whispers in the sullen quiet of the dark.

Something’s happening.

He can feel it.

    

   

* * *

 

    

    

    

    

Oregon only sleeps about two more hours before he wakes up again.

He showers later than normal to avoid interacting with the other Freelancers. He scrubs at his skin with an entire bar of soap to wash away the blood that isn’t there, not anymore, before he leans back against the wall. If he presses his fingertips to the slick tile he can feel the distant thrumming of the ship’s engines that seem to be ever present in almost every room, endlessly repeating cycles of input and output.

Beta mumbles a reminder about his appointment with the Counselor.

“Leon?”

He glances over when the fogged glass door glides open and Tex steps into the stall, shutting it gently behind her. The showers are unisex by set up, despite the privacy division in the locker rooms, but Tex has always been up so early that she’s in and out before morning rollcall even starts. Which is why he’s so surprised to see her here at such a late hour.

“Hey Tex,” he mutters weakly, watching her quizzically as she leans against the opposing wall and picks up what remains of his soap from the shelf.

It’s a tight spot and they’re almost touching, even when apart. She smiles at him but he turns his eyes down to her legs, the bruising around her knee, the red swelling in her knuckles as her palms rub at her torso with soap. Skin that’s felt pain, that’s broken and split and torn under pressure and duress. Human. Alive and injured and _human_.

“Looks bad,” he remarks off-handedly.

“I’ve had worse.” She hesitates, combing her gaze over his body, finding that he’s diverted his attention to the small viewing window above that displays the vacuum of space. “It’s okay,” she mutters now. “It’ll be okay.”

“I could have saved them.”

“Leon-”

“I should have saved them.”

“It was a _setup_. It’s not your fault – it’s no one’s fault but those Insurrectionist assholes.” She scrubs at her arms, her thighs, turns to him and hands him the dwindling bar. “The Director’s making it his upmost priority to find out where they might be hiding their leader,” she continues, offering him her back, “and who gave them the information that we were heading to the warehouse.”

Oregon gently runs suds over her scar. “You think there’s a traitor in our ranks?”

“No doubt about it,” she replies quietly. “We don’t have any hard evidence we can pin on any particular person, not yet, but there’s an investigation involving some untraceable, unsolicited transmission channels being connected to the ship in the recent months. I tried to look into it last night after the mission; interviewed Wash, Wyoming, Carolina, and Rhodes so far.”

“How’d that go?”

“Carolina was good about it. She brought up how the Director seemed fidgety about what was happening, and that she would start making rounds to check for anyone behaving suspiciously. Wash was surprised by the interview, told me he didn’t know anything was going on at all and that he would keep an eye out. Wyoming kept making knock knock jokes with Gamma until I had to throw them out.”

“And Rhodie?”

“She answered half my questions with shrugs before saying she didn’t know anything. But Rhodes has always been shut off; the Director recruited her because of her dependency for secrecy.” Tex dips her body under the water, presses her lips into a frown. There’s so much happening at once Oregon can almost see the stress accumulating on her shoulders until she moves to quickly rinse out her hair. “Hey. Can you promise me something?”

“Like what?”

“Be wary of who you trust. Because there _is_ a traitor in our ranks”—she steps towards the door, her glare set with anxiety—“and it’s another Freelancer.”

Oregon doesn’t respond as Tex kisses his cheek and takes her leave.

Unsettled, he shuts off the showerhead and makes his way into the locker room, drying off with an extra towel he finds on the cloth rack.

His armor is clean when he opens his locker. It’s been repainted the shade of sky blue that he finds particularly gorgeous, and waxed over with a smoothed quality finish; he forgot to tell them to make the trimming white, but he’ll settle for the new look all the same. He doesn’t put it on right away though, just lets it hang for a while until he’s had a moment to sit on the bench and stare at the same brand of armor that crumpled like paper under the sheer power of the 14B experiment.

He figures he shouldn’t have gotten so attached to those Freelancers. To Nebraska and Virginia and Delaware (Braska and Ginny and Del). He thinks maybe he shouldn’t be so attached to everyone else, either, if this is what might (will) happen every time they go out in the field.

“I fucked up,” he tells himself, finally gathering enough courage to stand.

He slips on his undersuit with ease, gets comfortable in its thermal material and the inner layer of gel that adjusts to his figure. His gear slides on easily enough, but he fumbles with strapping together his chest piece.

“ _Shit_.”

Florida pokes his head the around corner, giving off his radiant smile. “Hey, buddy! I thought I heard your voice!”

Oregon nearly jumps out of his own skin, but he exhales just as quickly. “Jesus, Florida! You scared the shit out of me.”

Florida gestures to the chest piece. “What a dazzling color. Did you pick it out?”

“To be honest, I think the Director wasn’t very clear when he had it cleaned.”

“I like it.” Another pause. “Do you need help?”

“I’m fine.”

Florida’s expression drops and he invites himself over, setting his helmet on the bench. He coaxes Oregon to turn, adjusts the buckles on the back of the chest piece, locking it snugly into place. His gaze wanders up to the exposed AI chips, slides his forefingers under the caught neck and adjusts it to cover them.

“It’s not your fault,” Florida says finally.

“I should have been a better captain. They trusted me, and I…”

“Son, stop.”

Oregon throws his fist into the locker door, crumpling it easily under his strength. Florida doesn’t even flinch. “God-fucking- _dammit_ Florida, don’t you get it?! They trusted me! And now they’re – they’re all _dead_ because they _trusted_ me and I _couldn’t_ -!”

“Stop.”

“I’m such a fuck up,” he utters. His voice cracks under the stress. “Why do I always have to ruin everything?”

“Hey…” Florida settles his hand against Oregon’s back. “You’re the only one of us who thinks this way, you know that? Defying death is part of the job description; we never consider the well-being of our friends when we all expect to never make it back.”

“But-”

“Come on kiddo, no one blames you and you shouldn’t blame yourself.”

“But you _don’t_ – you just don’t _get it_ , Florida.”

There’s a moment of lapsing silence that mounts the tension suddenly between them. Florida gradually brings his arm up and just as gently pats Oregon’s shoulder.

“I want to show you something.”

     

    

    

     

The classroom is unoccupied when the agents in blue saunter through the door. Florida guides Oregon to a desk and he logs in to his account, tabbing swiftly through saved video files from old missions, until he brings up a photo of a Freelancer in light steel blue armor. The word DECEASED is bracketed in red over the upper margin of the information page.

“That’s Utah,” Oregon mutters. “Thought he was KIA?”

“Utah was a very good friend of mine; we grew up in the same area, went to the same high school, grew apart until we reunited on the project. About a week or two before your recruitment we were assigned to a mission.” Florida swipes his hand across the screen, his normally jovial voice misted over. “Of course it seemed like everything was going too well…we managed to infiltrate the Insurrectionist ranks without so much as breaking a sweat.”

“What happened, did you piss ‘em off with your can-do attitude?”

Florida laughs. “Actually, someone slipped them information and they ambushed us when I let my guard down. Utah activated his enhancement to protect me.”

Oregon tabs down to find the “Second Skin” enhancement notes: a shield that forms over the armor to deflect bullets and small projectiles, acting like another layer. “So what went wrong?”

“It backfired and crumpled in on him. He was crushed to death in his own suit of armor.”

“…That blows.”

“Utah was better than me in every way – better scores in almost every field, unmatched in his skill with complex weapons – yet he still sacrificed himself to protect me. I never asked him to, and still I blamed myself during the weeks that followed.”

“You fucked up.”

“I did. But it was an accident, mistakes happen, and in the end it was Utah’s own decision that was his ultimate downfall. You wanted to make the decision to save your team but they never asked you to; we all know what fight we’re getting into.”

“It wasn’t their fight.”

“We all know the consequences of our actions.”

“It wasn’t their fight!” Oregon snaps back, slamming his fist into the screen. It resists his strength (easily, as if reinforced by the Director because of the physical habits of half the Freelancers on board). And just as quickly as it’s happened he recovers from his burst of anger. “It wasn’t _their_ fight, Florida, it was _mine_.”

“It’s all our fight,” Florida responds placidly. “Some of us lose, and some of us have to play the heroes. It’s the heroes who don’t get to see the end of the story.”

Oregon presses his palms into his forehead. “It’s not about playing hero, it’s about…fuck, I don’t even know anymore. The monster – whatever it was – that attacked my team, it called me _Alpha_. It killed them all because of this _Alpha_. I’m starting to believe that this entire project is about _Alpha_.”

“Alpha?”

“Do you know anything about that?”

Florida shakes his head in disapproval. “Not a thing, sorry kiddo.”

“No one really does…”

Florida busies himself with pulling up Oregon’s file. He points to the enhancement notes towards the bottom of the page, which has been recently updated with all his latest scores. “Look, they finally put all your information up!”

His full name is now displayed, no longer listed under classified. BETA and EPSILON are tagged under his AI tab, and his scores are graphed on charts. His enhancement notes list him under “AI-operated enhancement duplication”, with several bullet points marked as “simulation: successful”; which also unsettles him because of the severity of what could happen should the enhancement glitch.

“What does that mean?” he asks, scrolling further down. “Shouldn’t all this have been accessible before?”

“It only becomes accessible once you become a confirmed agent, so this means you’re doing a fine job and we’re keeping you as an official member of Project Freelancer.” Florida points to several minute notes. “See? You’re keeping the armor enhancement, the AIs, and now the Freelancers can access your information. You may think you’re screwing up, Oregon, but you’re not. And all this proves it.”

Oregon glances down at his file, returns his attention to Florida. “It says nothing about Alpha, though…which makes me wonder about what that creature was really after.”

“I don’t have a clue.”

Beta materializes in her typical plume of smoke. _“As much I hate to interrupt, you’re due in the Counsellor’s office in fifteen minutes.”_

“Shit, I forgot about that. I’m going.”

“We can talk later if you want,” Florida chirps, giving him on last pat on the shoulder.

Oregon heads quickly for the door, but he pauses in the opened frame and clears his throat. “Hey uh, Florida? …Thanks. For everything.”

And then he disappears down the hall and abandons Florida to silence.

Florida’s smile fades almost immediately. He drags agent Rhode Island’s file to one side of the screen and opens up her personal collection of files on the Insurrection on the other, unlocking passcode-protected documents with expert ease.

“Now let’s see what our dear old friend agent Rhodes has been hiding…”

      

       

       

      

“Hello, agent Oregon.”

“Counselor. Looks like you’re packing up; leaving for vacation?”

The Counselor is folding away his tablet and accompanying flash drives into a brief case on his desk. He gives Oregon a wry smile as the agent in blue sits pliantly in the chair across from him. “As you may know, agent Oregon, proper protocol dictates that I oversee the repercussions of deaths in the field. I was preparing to rendezvous with agent Iowa – our representative – and visit the families of the three Freelancers recently killed in action.”

“You don’t blame me for what happened, do you?”

“Of course not.” A pause. The Counselor glances him over with the calculated look of a divine hawk, interested and ruffled by the thrill of the hunt. “Do other agents blame you?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Do you blame yourself?”

Oregon diverts his gaze elsewhere, not that the Counselor can judge expressions through a helmet. “I don’t know. I think I’m just…in shock, or something, it hasn’t really set in yet.”

“That is a normal reaction to what you have experienced, agent Oregon. Emotional recovery takes time, and I will be here for you if you ever need to talk.” The Counselor allows several moments for his words to sink in before he continues. “This does, however, bring me to my proposition: I want you to run an errand for me.”

“An errand,” Oregon echoes, as if skeptical, but he’s mildly intrigued. “What, can’t get a Freelancer bitching for points to do it instead?”

“I think you will find this errand of particular value.”

“Pretty sure we don’t get paychecks, we just get portions.”

 _“Emotional_ value, agent Oregon. May I finish?”

Oregon shrugs and leans back into the loveseat.

“One of agent Virginia’s siblings was listed in our databases as a soldier in the Red and Blue simulation armies. As you know, the troopers are placed in intense scenarios resembling capture the flag for the enthrallment and advancement of Freelancer agents during idle time. Of course, though these situations scarcely prove fatal for the beta-lancers, you should find no trouble with the sim troopers if you arrive as a mutual party, and if you avoid compromising situations.”

“Oh, right, because of what happened to Alabama.” Oregon shakes his head. “May the glorious bastard rest in fucking pieces.”

“Alabama’s poor driving and geographical skills out of the question, I want you to find agent Virginia’s sibling and deliver her dog tags personally.”

“Rubbing salt on the open wound much?”

The Counselor lifts the silver chain from his breast pocket. The tags clatter together and dangle animatedly in the light of the passing stars. “Maybe you can find some sort of redemption in it, agent Oregon.”

He watches the tags glistening like faded silver. Persuasive in presence. Engrossed, he reaches out as the tags are tossed to him and he catches them easily by the chain. “Fine, I’ll do it.”     

“I knew you would accept. We will be passing over the simulation outpost soon, and the Director has already cleared your drop onboard four-seven-niner’s aircraft. You will be looking for agent Virginia’s brother, a soldier under the same last name.”

Oregon runs the pad of his thumb over the first dog tag.

    

**AGENT  
VIRGINIA**

He flips to the other.

 

**CABOOSE  
AMBER LYNN**

    

    

    

* * *

 

   

   

   

      

Oregon stands on the edge of High Tide, the largest mountainous island on the surface of the moon, which is surrounded by ocean water stretched across the surface. Every island neighboring it, including High Tide itself, is heavily populated by hideously interesting sea life and horrendous excuses for evolutionary avian animals (they only figured out the latter because some weird bat-thing with a beak hit the windshield of 479er’s ship during the drop).

Oregon’s gaze skims along the vertical dissension of the sky where the mother planet hesitates curiously on the helm of the sea. It’s rare to find a moon with habitable life, and he wonders for a moment how the Project can afford to maintain these outposts – but his thoughts fade with the breeze and he diverts his attention to the base several paces down the length of the beach.

He pads across the sand to the structure trimmed with cobalt, sloped walls marked up by bullets and shrapnel from grenades. The two Blue team soldiers are gathered outside, ringed around their Rockethog as they mutter about something involving the faulty canons.

“Hey Blues!”

They raise their rifles to him in synch, but almost immediately lower them again.

“Another Blue!” the soldier with purple accents says first. “Are you the new guy? Because we definitely don’t need another one of those.”

“Actually, I’m agent Oregon. I’m a Freelancer.”

“A what?” the member with green accents retorts.

“One of those guns-for-hire guys,” purple responds matter-of-factly. “You know, you call them in for the right price and they help you fight the other team.”

“Oh, right, those guys.” Green faces Oregon again. “Well, I’m Smalls, and this is McCormick. What do you want?”

Oregon exhales because this is definitely going to suck and he really doesn’t look forward to breaking the bad news. “I’m looking for a certain soldier of yours. Is your captain here?”

McCormick pads over to the base and calls up. “Hey Captain! We got a Freelancer here!”

“Give me a sec!” The captain leaps off the roof a moment later and lands with ease, trotting over to meet them. His shoulders are accented in light blue, stained by distinct splotches of oil. “Sorry about that, I was fixing our teleporter. I’m Captain Weathers. What can I help you with, Mister…?”

“Agent Oregon.”

“We didn’t hire any Freelancers.”

“I know, I’m looking for a Blue soldier of yours.” He watches them glance between each other before looking expectantly back at him, and he amends his statement. “Specifically, Caboose?”

The captain barks a harsh laugh. “Oh, boy. What’d the kid do to get on your bad side?”

“He didn’t, I have to deliver something to him.”

“Easier said than done, agent.” He turns to the base. “Hey, Caboose! Get out here, you have a visitor!”

The cobalt soldier appears in the doorframe several seconds later. “Oh boy, a visitor! I love visitors!” Something explodes behind him and a trail of fire erupts in the hallway, silhouetting him against the flames. “For the record, that was not my fault.”

Smalls sighs. “I’ll get the extinguisher, sir.”

Caboose replaces Smalls’ position in the circle and faces Oregon. “Hello, I am Caboose!”

“Michael J. Caboose?”

“Yes. That is my name.”

“Your sister is Amber Lynn?”

“She’s my big sister! She’s really patient with me and I love her very much.”

Oregon feels his gut tighten. “I’m agent Oregon, I worked with your sister. Listen, buddy. Why don’t we…talk?”

“I love talking!”

He faces Weathers. “Mind if I borrow him for a second?”

“Sir, we’ve got 99 problems and Caboose is all but _one_. You’re doing us a goddamn favor.”

“…Alright then.” Oregon maglocks his sniper rifle to his back and fishes the necklace out of his pocket. “Listen, uh, Caboose…I brought you this.”

“Oh no I couldn’t – I – I am just so embarrassed right now. No one told me it was Christmas already! I didn’t even bring you a gift.”

“Actually, these were your sister’s dog tags.”

Weathers and McCormick glance wearily at each other. “We’ll just leave you alone,” the captain says, starting off for the base with his subordinate in tow.

Caboose pauses. “This is a strange present, but I will accept none-the-less. I don’t want to hurt your feelings.”

“Caboose, focus. Don’t lose these, they’re very precious.”

“Okay!” He clips the tags around his neck and they clatter against his chest plate. “Oh, agent Oranges, when will Amber be back? I miss her very much.”

“That’s…that’s why I brought you her tags, because she’s not…” He swallows drily. _Fuck_. “She’s not coming back.”

“Next week then?”

“She’s not coming back ever.”

Caboose is quiet for several moments, as if he’s processing the words in their context, and when he smiles his eyes glaze over with tears. Then his voice cracks. “Don’t be – don’t be _silly_ agent Oranges, that’s not – you can’t _never_ come back. Because people will miss you very much and if you hurt them it won’t be very nice of you. If you don’t come back you’ll make lots of people very sad and very angry.”

Oregon notices the way Caboose’s weapon trembles and he grips it tightly to reaffirm it in his hands. The Freelancer moves forward to give him some form of a reassuring pat on the shoulder (because honestly, what in the actual fuck is he supposed to do in this situation?) but Caboose pulls away with a barely contained sob. “Bud-”

“She has to come back!” he snaps, stumbling into another step and his head drops down and all at once he _breaks_. “She can’t never come back!”

 _What a shame,_ Beta whispers.

Oregon draws his arms around Caboose, letting the weeping soldier lean into him for support.

_What a shame…_

       

   

    

    

“Omega, stop it.”

The guard gurgles and his body jerks with incoherent motions, nerves ignited by unfamiliar stimulation from a foreign, invasive source. Silver hexagonal figures span across his HUD like a veiling curtain as Omega integrates into the wires within.

_“I want…I need…Want…”_

“Omega, don’t. You’ll kill him.”

Tex keeps her voice as monotonous as possible despite the dread clawing hastily at her insides. Omega has displayed signs of self-awareness much like the other AIs on several noted occasions (and a handful of off-record instances), but his ability to travel via neuronal implants still baffles her – and terrifies her on an equally perplexing level. Omega _understands_ the danger and still he choose to jump into the nearest body –

_And for what?_

_“But I need – I want…”_

“Omega, what’s happening? What do you want?”

**_“Help me.”_ **

“I can’t help you unless you come back to me, okay? If he dies you’ll go with him.”

Omega hisses and launches out of the guard with precise calculations, careful to avoid damaging internal schematics in the helmet and projecting his data into the safety of Tex’s implants once more. She winces as the familiar haze of white blinds her momentarily, like seeing the light of a star for the first time in days, but Omega settles complacently into the back of her mind. Then she breathes. Blinks and adjusts to the shadowy presence.

_I want to be whole again._

“Wh-what happened?”

She turns her gaze to the guard as he rubs wearily at his neck. “You were a little light-headed,” she lies, “but you’re looking better.”

“Sorry about that, agent Texas. I’ll return to my duties.”

“Carry on.”

He salutes and saunters off, muttering under his breath about feeling mildly angry and distressed, and Tex passes down the hall to venture on her way. Omega murmurs about a pain emanating from his sudden jump between implants, leaving a distinct scent of fried circuits in his wake.

And suddenly, he prods into her thoughts.

_Something’s waking up, Texas…don’t you feel it?_

     

   

   

    

Carolina watches agent Texas pass the open office door and disappear down the corridor. Her concern amounts as her father buries his head in his hands and sighs. She glances off in another direction to continue pondering.

_With the mysterious transmissions being sent, the Chairman demanding results faster than we can produce, and the lack of new AIs for a dwindling number of agents, there’s no way this project will remain afloat…not if we don’t take other steps._

“Why did you call me in?” she asks when the silence becomes overwhelming.

“It’s time for the next phase of the Project,” the Director responds, drawing up out of his chair. “As you may remember, Agents Nevada and Indiana were assigned to a six-month mission in the field. They were posing as undercover security personnel onboard an excavation ship heading for a planet called Chorus.”

“The one that was carting the Alien and Human representatives, right?”

“Correct. The last transmission from them was sent four cycles ago and just reached our comms.” The Director brings up the frequency file on his desktop display. “Their ship was attacked by an unknown enemy, possibly the Insurrection, and Nevada was calling for extraction. We cannot afford any casualties, so I’m sending you in with Oregon to retrieve Nevada and Indiana – or if the worst has already befallen them, retrieve their armor.”

She nods, salutes. “Sir.”

“I’m sending a craft the order to lift Oregon from High Tide now.”

“I’ll get ready.”

“And Carolina…”

She glances at him over her shoulder as she heads for the door. He hesitates, suddenly recalls Tex’s voice. _“And that’s your goddamn problem! How about you start making things right for a change?! How about you start making things right with your own daughter?!”_

“Keep up the good work.”

She smiles beneath her helmet. “Of course, sir.”

    

   

   

   

They’re sitting on the roof of the outpost watching the sun melt on the horizon and Oregon pops a bendy straw through the lid of the juice box, passing it over to Caboose. The cobalt soldier reluctantly accepts it. For a while they’re silent as they swing their legs over the edge, and some lopsided attempt at a winged evolutionary predator careens through the sky with the grace of a hawk. Before them the ocean rumbles with vigor and glistens against the sun.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t save her.”

“I do not blame you,” Caboose says, and he gives Oregon a wide smile. “It was not your fault.”

“You haven’t asked how it happened.”

“How what happened?”

“How she died.”

There’s a lapse of quiet between them as Caboose thinks it over. “I think I will remember her the way she always wanted to go out – in the tentacles of a giant deep space octopus.”

“Not surprised.”

“Named Sponges.” Caboose sips his drink. “I named it Sponges.”

“You wouldn’t like the truth anyway.”

Caboose swings out his legs and taps his heels with uneven rhythm against the slant in the wall. “I like you, agent Oranges. We should be friends.”

“I’d rather kill myself.”

Another smile. “We’re gonna be best friends.”

“I’ll pass.”

“Oo, I know! You should help us defeat the Reds!”

“Sorry dude, I have prior arrangements. My head wants a date with the bullet of my pistol.”

Beta appears in her spire of smoke between them. _“You have an incoming transmission from the Mother of Invention.”_

“Oh look,” Caboose chirps, “a very small friend. We have not met.”

Oregon hops to his feet and replaces his helmet. “Keep him occupied while I take the call, B.”

_“Hello, Private Caboose. I’m Beta.”_

“Hello to you too, very small person!”

 _“Agent Oregon,”_ 479er calls from the transmissions room, _“report in. This is Mother of Invention. Do you copy?”_

“I’m here, Nine.”

_“Good to hear your voice. We’re sending a ship to retrieve you now.”_

Oregon doesn’t like the sound of that. “Did something come up?”

_“A new mission from the Director, but you’ll be debriefed when you return. Be at the drop location for rendezvous in fifteen.”_

“On it.”

Oregon switches off his long-range radio and kneels down beside Caboose still chatting idly with Beta. “And that is why I love the color blue!” he exclaims, sipping out the rest of his juice. “But now I’m not allowed near playgrounds.”

_“That’s…a very interesting story, Caboose.”_

“Time to pack it in, B,” the Freelancer remarks, “got new orders from the higher ups.”

“Are you leaving?” Caboose asks as Beta fades into a wisp of smoke that scatters like pixels in the wind.

“Finally.”

“Oh, okay. I had a fun time! You should come back soon.”

“Dude, this isn’t a hook up.”

Caboose sets his juice box by his helmet and smiles again, running his fingers through his shaggy hair. “You know, agent Oranges, I bet my sister really liked you.”

“She liked everyone. It was a bit of a problem, really.”

“Thank you for being her friend.”

Oregon diverts his gaze and tips over the edge of the roof. “Sure, Bud.” He slides along the slope to the sandy bank and glides into a light jog, trotting around the Rockethog and off the way he came. The other Blues are in the front hall of the base attempting to control the raging fire, so they don’t even notice the Freelancer taking his leave.

“Bye bye agent Oranges!”

Agent Oregon disappears with the daylight and he’s almost thankful he was never on the same team as Michael J. Caboose.

    

   

   

   

At the same time, Agent Nevada scales up an emergency fire escape ladder along an inner chamber of the ship. His assault rifle locks easily to his back in the midst of his climbing. He’s been working his way through the ship for four days, his communications with the MoI already severed by sabotaged long-distance radios, but if he exhales, he maintains his wits just enough to focus on his assignment.

_Survive until they get here._

Nevada tells himself that the transmission arrived safely, that it wasn’t intercepted and that backup will be coming soon.

_They have to know what’s going on._

But for now he has to keep moving, even if he is weakened and desperately clutching at his consciousness on the bars of a fire escape ladder in some intricate part of a hijacked ship.

“I can do this. I can do this. It’s not that hard, I can do this…”

His arms are burning under the strain of little food and so many friggin’ ladder rungs he curses this stupid ship for being the same size as Manhattan. At some point his knee slams into a lower bar and he curses, feeling the acute jolt of pain through the thick plating of his armor.

He wonders where Indiana might be beyond the cylindrical walls around him, dead or alive or starving or alive and starving to death. Nevada takes a deep breath to calm himself, but the anxiety has already set in faster than the exhaustion, fueled by his desperation and his dwindling hope.

“Goddammit, I changed my mind! This is _really_ fucking hard!”

Agent Nevada hesitates against the ladder rungs.

And then grins.

    

  

  

   

“Bow chika bow wow~!”

      

   

   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back, took a short break from everything.
> 
> Notes: some edits and changes have been made to the other chapters of the story. Nothing major, just wanted to add some consistency.
> 
> Notes on Agent Alabama: if you haven't read the official rvb guidebook, you wouldn't get the ref about Alabama. But to sum it up: sim troopers, a cliff, poor driving skills on Alabama's part, and now the troopers blow up cars in Alabama's name. Rest in pieces in peace, agent Alabama, you beautiful bastard.


	8. Mission Six: No Way Out (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a trap!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is like 12k words so I split it in half. The second half will come as soon as I can finish it.

   

   

   

Oregon spots the Counselor with agent Iowa and agent Carolina as he exits 479er’s ship. Iowa is very rarely seen around the MoI – given its gargantuan size, Oregon doesn’t see much of most of the Beta-lancers – but he sticks out like a sore thumb, dressed in military issued red armor with darker crimson stars accenting his shoulder blades. He seems agitated by something Carolina has said that Oregon failed to overhear during his return. Curious, Oregon tromps over to the trio, Iowa’s gritty voice rising in volume as he continues to rant.

“Is that any way to speak to a superior officer?!”

“Now agent Iowa,” the Counselor begins, placid as always, “you are no longer training foot soldiers in Freelancer scenarios. Need I remind you, your military rank does not hold placement on the board. You are equal with your peers.”

“Equals?” Iowa scoffs, disgusted. “With a dirty _Blue_? Why I outta-!”

“What’s going on?” Oregon interjects as he joins their circle.

Carolina snorts. “Iowa here thinks the Military invented the sun.”

“Of course they did!” the agent in red snaps back. “Your enemies are most likely to strike when you’re sleeping at night! So as a strategic effort backed by years of collaboration on the military’s part, and of course, tax funding from the naïve yet acutely wary public, the sun was created to ensure the victory of our armies in a setting of broad daylight!”

Oregon looks at Carolina. “Who picked this guy for representative?”

“It _used_ to be Utah.”

“And we couldn’t change it to someone with _competent_ people skills? Like”—Oregon hesitates and runs through the list of Freelancers in his head, weighing his options carefully—“shit, you’d think there’d be at least _one_ of us who can talk to a civilian without fucking it up.”

“I have fantastic people skills!” Iowa shoots back. “That’s why I nominated myself!”

“Waving a shotgun in someone’s face isn’t the best way of making friends.”

“Of course not, but it _is_ an effective form of negotiation.”

“Come along agent Iowa,” the Counselor says, starting for the air craft with his brief case in tow. Despite his placid expression he’s clearly in no mood to allow Iowa to further delay their travels. “We have much to finish before the end of the week.”

Iowa grumbles under his breath about the Blues one more time before facing Carolina. “Send Cassandra my regards, will ya?”

He turns away once more and follows Aiden Price across the landing bay.

 _“Cassandra?”_ Oregon retorts. “Who the _fuck_ is _that_?”

“His daughter.” Carolina winces at the thought. “We have _questionable_ policies when it comes to hiring family members. But of course my opinions don’t hold any weight in the matter.”

“Sounds rough.”

“ _Very_.”

“…Wanna talk about it?”

Carolina gives him a glare that could freeze the core of a sun. She paces towards 479er directing a crate into the lower hull of her ship, and after taking a moment Oregon catches up to Carolina quickly. 479er watches them trot up the ramp into the main hull.

“You two ready for hyperspace?” she asks, following their lead.

“I told the Director I can handle this mission myself,” Carolina remarks with a sneer. She hoists herself into the perch seat and sets her gun on the hooks in the fold of the wall to keep it secure.

Oregon scoffs. “Hey, it’s not like I volunteer myself for this shit. Why don’t you go bitch to Daddy Dearest if you’re gonna have a problem with every group assignment.”

He storms off into the lower hull to deposit his gun in the under carriage for safety, mumbling as he leaves. Rhodes and South pass by the rear of the drop ship, and he decisively treks down to meet them, stands on the edge of the hatch. “Going for a walk?”

“Quick field op,” Rhodes responds. “Where are you off to?”

“Extracting Nevada and Indiana.”

“Right,” South says, “I forgot about them. Weren’t they acting as reps for some human-alien negotiation at a six-month conference? How the hell did they manage to fuck that up?”

Rhodes folds her arms. “I doubt the negotiations went sour, given the contracted laws that prevent any form of battle over discovered alien artifacts.”

Oregon glances at her quizzically. “I’m sorry, _alien artifacts?”_

“You mean you don’t know?” South retorts.

Eta appears over South’s shoulder and echoes her question with intrigue. _“Oregon don’t know. Oregon! Don’t know?”_ and South has to shush her.

“What do you think CT’s specialty is?” Rhodes continues, much less skeptical. “She studies alien artifacts and deals with our commissions to collect them for analysis. Nevada and Indiana deal directly with our commissioners and get sent out for weeks at a time to act as representatives and security through the negotiations that involve either us or our contractors.”

“Now I’m wondering if a third party is after those artifacts,” Oregon says as the ship begins to whir behind him.

“We’re closing the hatch!” 479er calls out.

Oregon glances back briefly before returning his attention to the agents across from him. South waves him off with a two fingered salute that Eta mimics. Rhodes looks at him intensely, and then speaks gently, “Hey, we’re friends, right?”

He blinks. “Uh…yeah, I don’t see why not. Something wrong?”

“I – no, it’s nothing.” Rhodes shakes her head. “I was just wondering. It’s good to have friends, you know? Someone you can trust”—she holds his gaze again, he doesn’t think he can look away—“and you _do_ trust me, don’t you?”

He swallows drily. “I don’t get what that has to do with-”

“I didn’t think so.”

“ _Dammit_ , Rhodie, that’s not what I-”

“Do yourself a favor and _don’t_ trust me. Don’t trust _anyone,_ friend or not. Please.”

There’s a tense, awkward silence as she begins to walk away, pacing across the bay towards the far dropship. Oregon is left to tromp up the ramp into the belly of the aircraft, and the hatch ascends from the floor to lock into place and seal them in. He feels his nerves rattle in the wake of Rhodes’s odd behavior (and yet, she’s always been a bit odd).

“What’d she say?” Carolina asks.

He glances up at her. “What?”

“What did Rhodes say to you? I could feel the tension from here.”

“Oh, uh – nothing important, just mentioned she was going on a field op. You know she’s just an intense person who says normal things in a weird ass way.”

Oregon’s response doesn’t sound entirely genuine but Carolina decides not to press further. She doesn’t want to mention to him the investigation into Rhodes that Florida was conducting over the course of the last few weeks. If anything, Oregon _shouldn’t_ be involved.

“By the way,” Carolina remarks, addressing their pilot so she can change the subject, “Sarge says hi.”

479er exhales an exasperated sigh as she buckles into her seat. “Of _course_ he does.”

She punches several switches and the ship rumbles to life. Oregon feels the engines whirring beneath his feet, a distant hum much like the familiar humming of the _Mother of Invention_ – and something within him feels distinct, feels repetitive but forgotten, feels like a memory that he can’t grasp even when he shuts his eyes and searches for the sensation.

 _“Are you remembering something?”_ Beta asks hopefully, materializing before him.

“What’s there to remember?” he replies quietly. “Beta, what am I forgetting?”

“We’re taking off!” 479er calls back, pulling on her throttle.

Oregon moves swiftly into the front of the ship and perches in the co-pilot’s seat. He clips in the harness, leans back and breathes as the ship lurches into the air. It swings when it turns to the rear bay door. Space awaits them outside the gravity veil, isolated for thousands of miles in every direction.

“Brace,” 479er orders, pulling through the magnetic field and into the void, “we’re gonna warp.”

“ _Warp_?” Oregon echoes. “How far are we going?”

“Ten years out, but we can get there in a few hours.” She reaches up and hits the overhead switches. The engines rumble again. This time the ship rockets forward, the chart map displayed on the screen scanning all hazards several miles ahead every second, naming off constellations and nearby solar systems and a majoris of stars.

The pressure accumulates on Oregon’s chest for the second time this cycle. He breathes, feels the icy electric tang of Epsilon passing through his suit to make sure the velocity doesn’t cause any unsolicited damages to the armor.

The ship slips into hyper space. Everything tightens, everyone relaxes into it.

And then Oregon laughs. “I can’t believe your name is fucking _Cassandra_.”

 

* * *

 

    

    

   

   

The S.S. Kingsland drifts, locked in high earth orbit with Chorus; every light is off, except for the emergency beacon blinking at the front of the hull pointing towards the planet. It looks like a satellite shadowed against the stars.

“Should we dock?” Oregon asks.

Their drop ship hovers half a mile off. “Not gonna happen, and I don’t want to flash them,” 479er replies, tapping the controls on her screen. “There’s seven things wrong with that ship and I can count _eight_. No lights means the primary engines have been cut, I can’t get a hold of their radio coms, and according to the Director’s notes, this ship should have been out of this system two weeks ago. You know what that means?”

“A trap?” Oregon offers.

“Sabotage,” Carolina says grimly. “I’ve never heard of the Insurrection operating this far out, either, so I’m thinking we’re dealing with someone else entirely.”

“Won’t know until we board,” Oregon remarks, getting up from his chair and trekking into the back of the hull to retrieve his sniper rifle. He reaches down and unhinges it. Calls back to Carolina jumping out of her perch, “So how are we doing this?”

“The gravity fields in the docking stations look like they’re running on different power, possibly back-up generators. We can get in that way.”

“Please don’t say we’re going by jetpack – not after what happened to Georgia.”

Carolina pulls back the armory compartment panel in the floor to expose the several jetpacks and canisters of excess fuel lined in a row. She reaches in on one knee as Oregon grumbles behind her. “Now remember what happened to Georgia,” she says, tossing a pack to him, “and do everything _but_ that. I was promised bonus points for bringing you back alive.”

The door to the cockpit slides shut and 479er’s voice echoes in their intercoms. _“Get ready for ejection.”_

Oregon maglocks the pack to his back and fists his sniper rifle close to his chest. Carolina copies his movements, securely holstering her backup pistols. Together they anchor to the floor with their mag boots as the compartment begins to depressurize, sucking air into the vacuum of space. The force of the tug doesn’t even make them flinch in their protective armor.

Oregon feels the thermal gel in his suit hardening against his skin, yet he still recognizes the biting of the cold.

Carolina kicks out first, holding steady with her thrust, and Oregon launches out after her. The void is still around them, so quiet he hears white noise in place of sound. Beta identifies Chorus on his screen.

“You used to work well in a team, Carolina,” Oregon starts, following her curve towards the dropship bay, “at least, somewhat well.”

“Do you have a point?”

“Why are you fighting me?”

She doesn’t look back at him. After another half minute of silence she gently sighs. “It’s not you, not really. The Director…for the first time in my life since my mother died he told me he was proud of me. I don’t want to let him down. I _can’t_ let him down, not after all we’ve been through.”

“I won’t get in your way.”

“I’m sure you won’t,” she replies with blatant sarcasm.

“Is this about the chili incident? I already apologized.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I thought about it.”

She huffs. “This isn’t about the chili incident.”

“Lina-”

“Just forget I said anything.”

Oregon presses his lips together. _Figures._  

* * *

 

    

   

 

        

_(Something doesn’t feel right.)_

When they land through the gravity veils they find that the bay is dark. Their headlights knife through the shadows and illuminate the drop ships stored in the bunker. Carolina gestures to Oregon with one hand, signaling him to sweep right, while she breaks off to go left.

He moves carefully, skimming his light over the walls and the aircrafts, peering inside the hangars to find empty seats and no pilots.

_This place shouldn’t be vacant._

Beta locates an object that reflects his light and zooms in, displaying the image on his HUD. Oregon motions to Carolina across the room that he’s found something. He pads over to the upper center of the bay, several yards away from the main entrance into the ship, and kneels down over the silvery object.

Oregon picks up the dog tags and smooths his thumb over the finish of one.

**AGENT:  
INDIANA**

_Did something get him?_ He wonders, pocketing the tags. “Clear,” he announces finally.

“Clear,” Carolina echoes, trotting over to him. “What’d you find?”

“Indiana’s dog tags,” he says as he rises to his feet.

Carolina taps her intercom. “Strange, I can’t get through to 479er. There must be some sort of interference preventing low frequency calls from leaving the ship – I’m thinking the channel was severed when the main power operating it was cut.”

“So then how did Nevada send his distress beacon?”

“He had to have sent it before the channel went down.”

 _“Or he hooked up directly to a central radio beacon,”_ Epsilon offers, appearing like an apparition over Oregon’s shoulder. _“Most first-class ships like this have one to handle all incoming and outgoing calls without frying the direct motherboard. If we can find it, it would be close to the main generators, and from there we could switch all the power back on.”_

“Think you can get us a map?” Oregon asks.

_“I knew you would ask, so I projected myself into the power lines powering the gravity fields and downloaded the ship’s map from the database before I got locked out.”_

“Locked out?” Carolina retorts. “Do they know we’re here?”

_“Of course not. I just ran into a firewall I couldn’t get through without triggering some secondary alarms.”_

“Nice job,” Carolina responds, starting off towards the main hall. “Oregon, find the engines. I’ll try to locate Nevada and Indiana, or at least some semblance of the crew.”

 _We shouldn’t split up,_ he wants to say, but just nods. “On it.”

Carolina switches her light off and turns her HUD to night vision, allowing her to disappear into the darkness almost completely as she goes.

Epsilon brings up the map on the inner visor. There’s a white dot indicating Oregon’s position. _“I wonder what happened to the place,”_ Epsilon adds, flickering out, _“it’s like they all got spooked or disintegrated or something.”_

Oregon hears a rattle from somewhere in the distance, perhaps a pipe, maybe worse.

“Yeah,” he agrees, facing the sign indicating F-wing, “or something.”

* * *

 

    

    

    

   

For several hours, Oregon finds nothing but the darkness of the unnerving ship, until he finally exits the F-wing to head for the E-wing. F-wing was a vacant plot of lounges and hallways connecting every wing to the other with directional signs, and now Oregon finds himself in E-wing, the section of the ship used as the passenger’s bedrooms.

What bothers him most is that he hasn’t seen _anyone_ – a crew member, a passenger, a single stowaway rat.

 _“If the ship was to be evacuated,”_ Beta starts, as if attempting to ease his frustration, _“perhaps they returned to their quarters to await further instructions. They could still be there.”_

 _“According to the ship’s charts they have emergency escape tunnels linked to the rooms,”_ Epsilon says.

“So they’re in hiding?”

_“It’s a possibility, given that every ship is still in the landing bay. And none of the emergency eject pods were activated, either.”_

Oregon passes the sign for E-wing. “How long has it been like this?”

Epsilon hums _. “Says in the logs I gathered…just hit twenty-seven cycles. And – that’s interesting. It also says there’s an undocumented carrier ship that has come and gone twice over the last twenty-one.”_

“Did they take anything?”

_“I don’t know, I couldn’t get that far into the logs.”_

_“Pirates?”_ Beta voices.

 _“Not on a ship so heavily guarded,”_ Epsilon replies _. “They had sixty-three personnel on security alone scattered all across the place, another thirty-four crew members, twenty human representatives, twenty alien representatives and-”_

“Two Freelancers.”

Oregon whips his rifle up when he hears banging from somewhere in the distance down the halls.

“So who could have done all this?” the agent in blue mutters, trekking down the path to follow the noise. “If there’s only _one_ undocumented carrier ship – which can hold what, maybe fifteen people max? – what the fuck happened to everyone onboard?”

 _“Was it a hit?”_ Beta muses.

“They’d need an equal force to get through all that security.”

His light skims over a limp body of an alien, armed to the teeth like one of the sentry guards their race would typically lug around with them at these meetings. It’s tucked against the crevice of a corridor wall as if blown back by force. Iridescent blood splotches the aluminum finish of the panels.

Oregon runs his fingertips across the markings only to have them crumble beneath his touch. Dry. “This bastard’s been dead longer than a week,” he remarks, allowing Beta to scan the body’s armor for visible wounds or information. “Got anything, B?”

_“Several bullet wounds to the torso. A knife wound to the neck, severing the throat.”_

_“Hard to tell what killed the guy first,”_ Epsilon adds. _“At least we know they weren’t kidnapped.”_

The noise resounds again. It sounds like a gunshot, followed by a harsh laughter. The echo reverberates down the corridor and rides up Oregon’s spine like the haunting presence of a ghost.

“Epsilon…Where is that carrier now?”

_“Docked in Hangar B, other end of the ship.”_

“So they’re here. Whoever did this is still here.”

His intercom crackles as Carolina radios in. _“Oregon, come in. I made it to A-Wing, but there’s no sign of Nevada or Indiana.”_

“I just entered E-wing. Lina, listen to me, this shipped was attacked. I just found an alien corpse, looks like one of security’s team.”

_“Do you have any information on the hit?”_

“Only that whoever these bastards are, they’re still on board.”

Carolina curses under her breath. _“Copy that. Stay hidden and keep the channel open.”_

He exits the call. For another half hour as he sweeps the wing there is nothing, not a sound, not a single drip of a leaky pipe. No living people (although he finds several corpses of the representatives and the crew).

Then all at once, the quiet is broken.

An incoherent voice barks out about something he can’t make out, and there’s something taunting, unsettling, and downright terrifying about it he rushes for the nearest door. It’s the closest of the several other rooms lining the wall all the way down to the several branches, half-way opened as if caught in an emergency bypass to keep them from shutting.

_So they can’t be locked._

He sees a figure appear in the corner of his eye.

_Ah, shit._

He ducks into the room and prays that the figure didn’t notice him. For several prolonged seconds he holds his breath, keening his ears towards the noise of rushing footsteps, only to hear silence – his heart beat is suddenly too loud, his breath too hazy, the ship too small and the door doesn’t close all the way behind him.

There’s two corpses of humans on the floor, possible lawyers from the way they’re dressed, suits black on white with brightly colored ties stained by dark blood.

He clamps his mouth shut. The smell is _horrendous_. Black mold and rigor mortis and the flesh doesn’t decompose the same way it should on any earthly planet. Fuck, he would vomit if he weren’t so afraid of it giving his position away.

 _Breathe,_ Beta mutters in his mind, her smoky aura easing his tension just enough to grasp the reigns on his thoughts.

Oregon recognizes the sudden scuffle of armored boots tapping the floor as the wearer makes their way down the corridor, so professionally silent Oregon almost doesn’t realize he’s no longer alone. He presses firmly against the wall, switching off his helmet light for the HUD’s night vision screen, masked by the darkness of the room to serve as his cover.

He anticipates the right moment to ambush the assailant and –

“Hmph, stupid radio…”

A human. _Could it be…_ o _ne of our agents?_

“Felix here, leave a message after the beep.”

_Who?_

“Yes, that is hilarious. You just don’t appreciate quality humor”—a door slides open and Felix’s voice fades as he sweeps the room. Oregon strains to hear the conversation; Felix emerges once more—“yes I’m sweeping the goddamn E-wing again. I actually found someone still alive! Put a bullet between his eyes… No, one of the engineers I think, had a lab coat. That makes everyone, except for those fucking Freelancers.”

Oregon glances around for an escape. The voice is getting closer as ‘Felix’ enters another room and exits it.

“And you believe her?...Fine, if she’s going through all this trouble to sell them out, I’ll take her word for it. The next time this agent – what’s her alias? – Yeah, her. The next time she contacts you, call me.”

A pause.

“I can handle it. Just take care of that bitch who killed our guy in A-wing. If the Freelancers didn’t want to lose their people they shouldn’t have sent more after us!”

_They know we’re here?_

Felix disappears into another room. Oregon peers out into the hall, and as a flash of orange and gray appears in his night vision screen he ducks back into hiding.

A chuckle rumbles in Felix’s throat. Then Oregon hears what sounds like a blade scraping a hard surface: the tip of a knife being dragged across the wall. “Agent _Oregon_ was it? Yes, I do believe that’s what she said your codename was.”

_Oh shit._

“I know you’re here. We’ve been tracking those two allies of yours for _days_ now – and might I add, we anticipated your arrival! I’m so glad you made it!”—He digs his cutlass into the plating of the wall, curling up strips of silver paint with a sickening screech like nails on a chalkboard—“Not _you_ , per say, but definitely more Freelancers.”

Oregon scans the room for an exit door, a vent or a sliding door in the wall.

“The first two were only supposed to be collateral damage! But then that annoying _prick_ just had to go and use the beacon tower to send out a distress call. If anything, _he’s_ the one who got you killed. I’m simply a soldier, doing his duty…”

He locates a fire escape hatch in the floor before the desk.

“Don’t be shy, Oregon, you can come out! I have motion sensors in my armor, I know _exactly_ where you’re hiding.”

Felix turns into the room just as Oregon hops into the tunnel, dropping into the blackness below like a stone, not even bothering to slow his descent with the ladder rungs. The mysterious man in orange barks a harsh, belittling laugh and slams his fist into the hatch door.

“Run little fox, run!”

Oregon hits the grated walkway with a deafening bang and collapses to one knee from the force of the blow. The armor absorbs the shock with ease but its weight alone knocks him off balance. His heart is threatening to slam its way out of his chest.

He maglocks his sniper rifle over the jet pack and breaks into a sprint. Behind him boots slam into the floor. Felix shouts. The adrenaline pushes him faster, through the weave of pipes and around corners, somewhere into the next wing of the ship.

Then Beta switches on his intercom, reading his thoughts before he gives the order.

“Carolina, do you hear me?!”

_“Oregon? What’s happening?”_

“They know who we are!”

_“What?!”_

“We have to leave! One of them is coming for you now!”

 _“We’re not leaving without Nevada and Indiana,”_ Carolina replies, although her voice has elevated with alarm. _“Pick up the pace but keep your guard up! We’ll rendezvous soon.”_

She ends the call and he wants to say he’s pissed at her for being stubborn but she’s right. This is a priority mission. Find the agents, dead or alive – and Oregon is beginning to wonder if he’ll find anyone on board with a pulse.

_Goddammit. This can’t get any worse._

Felix. He didn’t look like an Insurgent, or any kind of Insurrectionist at all – his armor is already the newest rendition of the Mark VI Scout mods, the most up-to-date edition that can currently be obtained only by the soldiers working for the big money. Mercenaries? Private guards? Cons? And he said “we”, he _knows_ Oregon is onboard and yet, _how_? How did he know that? How did he obtain any of the information he has?

_Who ratted us out?_

Oregon slides into a vent drop and makes it under the pipes, but as he gets up to run several knives sail through the air with an acute whistle and slam into the wires around him, into his upper hip and into the back of his knee. The whittled blades pierce through the thick material of his exposed undersuit with ease.

He screams and hits the paneling with such force it collapses. The impact with the lower treads of the duct system force the knife in his back to stab entirely through his muscle, severing layers of tendons and flesh, nearly puncturing the organs in his torso.

Felix appears over him, brandishing another fistful of his throwing blades as he drops down into the tunnel.

Oregon shoots up to his feet and tosses the cutlass he had tugged free from his leg, but Felix deflects it with the armor on the back of his wrist.

“Epsilon, project yourself and shut off his visibility!”

_“I – I can’t!”_

“Terribly sorry about that,” Felix says with a devilish smirk Oregon can feel through the helmet. “We don’t have AI ports.”

Oregon rips the blade out of his back with a cry, stumbling several steps, bumping his head into a low-hanging oxygen pipe. He ducks under it as Felix tosses his first knife, which deflects off a funnel to Oregon’s right.

“Shit,” Oregon hisses as he spins, instinctively knocking aside another tossed dagger with his own. He blocks another but Felix rushes in with the third, slapping Oregon’s arm aside and slamming the cutlass up into the underside of Oregon’s ribs. The blade punctures his lung with ease.

Felix chuckles, pushing him down with little effort. He crashes through a vent duct just big enough to squeeze through, dropping down into the next room. The table breaks most of his fall despite bending nearly in half from his weight.

“Is this all the Freelancers have to offer?” Felix says, almost disappointed. He drops out of the duct and lands with ease on the crumpled table.

Oregon rolls face-first onto the floor, pushing up to his knees, to his feet. He presses one hand to his wound as the healing unit works ineffectively to clog the air escaping from his lung. “F-fuck _you_ ,” he seethes, leaning against the wall to keep steady. “Goddamn… _asshole_.”

Felix laughs.

They’ve wound up in a medical room, shattered beakers scattered in shards across the tile from where Oregon landed; Felix picks up a scalpel and fiddles with it, trotting over to the opened door across the way. He presses his back against the frame.

“Now, agent Oregon…don’t give me that look. I only want to know where he took it.”

“Who took what?” Oregon snaps back. He wheezes in a breath, stumbles. His chest piece compresses on the bleeding gash.

“Your Freelancer buddy, he took a very important artifact that we’ve come to collect.”

Oregon gasps, hisses through his teeth. “I won’t tell you shit. I know your kind – you’ll kill”—he wheezes, curses—“kill me, kill my friends – no matter what I say.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Felix replies. He holds the scalpel up against the night vision sensors on his helmet to admire the point of the blade. “Maybe I should keep you alive then. Do you think if I torture that girl enough – oh, what’s her name, _Carolina_? – do you think if I flay her alive you’ll start talking? Maybe I’ll start with her pretty eyes. I’ve always had a thing for green eyes.”

Oregon lunges with a scream but Felix side steps him, allowing him to collapse to the hallway floor.

“Tsk tsk,” Felix murmurs. “You’re the _fighting_ type. Torture it is.”

“Don’t touch her!” Oregon yells back, crawling to his feet with the last of his waning strength. “Don’t you lay a single fucking _finger_ on her or I’ll kill you myself!”

“Hey Locus,” Felix addresses into his radio, “I downed one like a sick horse. You get the other? …I see. Well, I’ll just bring this one back then. We’ll round up in an hour.” He shuts off his intercom and chuckles under his breath. “See? She’s trained well, but we’re better. I’ll have to warm up on the flight back to base.”

“ _Carolina_ -”

“Should I carve up her face and make you watch?”

Oregon’s agonizing scream echoes down the corridor when Felix’s boot connects with his side, sending the Freelancer into the wall. The blow reopens what his flesh was attempting to seal, splattering fresh blood on the floor.

“Oh, I am _so_ going to have fun with you – SHIT!”

Oregon doesn’t know what happens next – one moment Felix is gloating over him, the next, something rams into him from out of the darkness and plasma bullets rocket down the hall as he sprints off. Felix is gone with a shout that fades with the darkness.

The smell of burnt flesh permeates the air. When the quiet settles a horrifying snarl cleaves through the shadows.

Then Oregon panics, shoving himself up to his feet once more.

In the distance, he hears what sounds like alien language, faint, a whisper. Nothing appears in his line of sight even as the silence settles. He freezes on instinct, doesn’t bring his gun up or dare to move an inch. Something clacks against the tile, like claws. A creature. An alien from the ship?

_Then…it thinks I’m the enemy, too._

“Beta?” he utters. “Where is it?”

She doesn’t get to answer. A throaty growling follows a rush of hot air against the front of his helmet. The invisibility creeps away from the alien’s armor like a receding fire and its jaws peel back into a snarl as it nearly presses its barred fangs to Oregon’s visor.

_This got worse._

_This got much, much worse._

The alien holds Oregon there for what feels like several minutes. It hisses, one hand gripping a sword, the plasmatic blade coming up to skim the arch of his neck. He swallows drily. The armor on the creature is unlike the typical plating of the alien warriors, an intense seafoam green with gentle blue lights emitting from small ports in the chest piece. Could he fight this creature in his current condition?

_I’ve got no fucking choice, that’s for sure._

His finger clicks back the safety on his side arm.

Beta’s voice suddenly echoes out. _“Subject identified.”_

“What?”

The beast growls, inhaling Oregon’s scent with a sharp intake of breath. And then it _honks_.

_“Agent Indiana, confirmed.”_

Indiana grumbles with delight and recedes, powering off the sword and hinging it to his hip. He says something Oregon doesn’t understand.

“Indiana?” Oregon retorts, finally breathing again. Wheezes. “For the love of Christ, no one told me you were going to be a fucking _alien_.”

He supposes it makes sense though, for Project Freelancer to utilize a peace treaty or two to hire an alien into their ranks for these kinds of negotiations. And as uncomfortable with the notion as he is, he decides to push it off for now and is more than thankful he has another Freelancer with him on this floating death trap.

“Do you understand me?”

Indiana dips his head and honks.

Oregon fishes out Indiana’s dog tags, offering them out to him. On the second tag he sees Indiana’s name: _Tucker, Lavernius Jr._ A human name for a foreign creature. “Here, you dropped these.”

Indiana squeals, swiping the chain from Oregon’s hand and clipped the tags around his neck with relative ease. He tucks them into his chest piece.

“Thanks for saving my ass… I came here to rescue you, too.”

Another honk. Oregon doesn’t know if that’s a yes or a no but either way he’s so fucking _thankful_ this thing showed up to deliver him from his second near-death experience of the month.

“Junior!”

An agent in the same shade of aqua armor, except bracketed by dark blue, stands on the edge of the overhead railing, which Oregon only notices with his night vision when he looks up. The agent drops down as the alien recedes, mumbling under its breath, and he moves to its side. “Are you okay? Did they hurt you?”

The alien grumbles and shakes its head.

“Junior?” Oregon echoes.

The aqua (seafoam? Light teal maybe?) agent turns to him. “Holy shit dude, we almost didn’t get you in time! You’re lucky Felix has such a big ass mouth!”

“I’m Oregon. Carolina and I came to rescue you.”

“Well it’s about fucking time! I’m Nevada, in case you didn’t get it. And this is my son, Junior – er, Indiana, whatever the fuck you wanna call him.”

Indiana honks.

“You adopted an _alien_?”

“Don’t be rude,” Nevada shoots back. “We prefer the term Terrestrial-American. Also, _no_ , he is _not_ adopted and if you try to convince him otherwise I’ll shank you for fucking with my kid.”

Oregon groans and can’t tell if it’s darkness in his vision or the darkness around him that’s making him lose his focus with reality. “I don’t care anymore I just – shit – there a, med bay or something? Asshole stabbed me in my favorite lung.”

“This way,” Nevada replies promptly, motioning for Indiana to help support Oregon.

“How can you tell when it’s pitch black in here?”

“Because I like it better with the lights off!”

Indiana scoffs. “Bow chika honk honk~”

     

    

    

   

Oregon is barely conscious when Indiana finally splays him out on a stretcher in the med bay’s ward, located somewhere in D-wing. The lights here are dim, operating automatically off the backup generator that supports the important machines, and Oregon blinks wearily against the glow. It’s refreshing to see out of something other than a night vision setting in his HUD, at least.

Indiana follows Beta’s instructions to patch up the worst wound with the false protein canister that cauterizes his injuries and encourages his unusual healing ability to seal the flesh faster. Beta assures Oregon that he’ll be able to use his knee in a few hours, but strenuous exertion could tear the wound open again, and he simply scoffs and says, “I know B, I have medical training too.”

But he’s still in immense pain; his deeper wounds don’t amend as easily as shallow ones. If anything, they hurt worse, itch from the healing but burn from the cells in his body rejecting all possible infections.

Nevada finally takes pity on his teammate and pops the cap on a syringe he finds in a med kit, injecting it into Oregon’s shoulder with a swift stab.

“Ow! What the hell was-?!”

“The strongest dose of pain killers we’ve got,” Nevada responds, watching in mild amusement as Oregon careens over against the bed. “Your armor’s healing unit has _nothing_ on this.”

Oregon wants to snap back but he’s already too far gone and the lights above him are dimming into darkness.

He hears Beta and can’t make out her words.

* * *

    

    

    

   

Sometime later, he stirs awake.

Oregon never realized he fell asleep at all, but according to his HUD it’s only been two and a half hours. The gash severing the back of his knee has amended completely, despite groaning at an obtuse ache in his joint, and his lung hole has sealed without the organ collapsing.

Nevada is at the door of the med bay, keeping watch with an alien energy sword in one grip. Indiana is across the room examining a strange gun of some kind.

“Artifact,” Oregon murmurs, thinking back to Felix.

“You made it,” Nevada remarks as he treks over to greet his ally. He sheathes his sword and clicks the hilt into place on his hip. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I got stabbed,” comes the blunt reply. Oregon sits upright with a moan. “A bit like I got hit by a train, too.”

"You came back from that really fast, what kind of healing unit or you running?"

"A prototype," he lies. "Has a lot of side effects."

“Uh…right. Yeah. So I need to explain some stuff now that you’re awake.” Nevada flips open the computer panel mod installed in his left forearm’s armor, tapping swiftly on his keys to bring up his recent files. He shows Oregon the image. It’s a blueprint of the ship in its entirety, with highlights of red and yellow, exits and x’s. “Here, I’ve been recording my progress as I moved through the ship.”

“Progress?”

“You know, like taking notes and shit whenever you get closer to your goal.”

“I know what _progress_ means dipshit, I want to know what you were trying to accomplish.”

Indiana honks. Nevada shushes him. “I’ve been mapping out every detail of this ship since the day we arrived, and crossed off the places where the mercs were patrolling so I could learn their routine. It took nearly seven cycles, but I couldn’t figure out why they were staying this long, or what they were after.”

“Alien artifacts, right?” Oregon guesses.

“I’m getting there dude, shut up and enjoy my story.” Nevada gestures to Indiana. “We wanted to see what these assholes were after, right? So we split ways and Junior managed to find them taking the alien artifacts from the cargo hold. Would you believe it took a carrier ship of only ten people to slaughter literally the entire crew?”

“Get to your point, Nevada.”

“Dude, come on, you can’t tell a good story by jumping over the climax!”

_“Tucker!”_

“Jeez, alright! We managed to find each other again after a few weeks and Indiana snatched a busted rifle-thing from the hold and since they saw us with it they’ve been chasing after us to get it back. Apparently they’re selling them to some guy who wants to repair them and pay top dollar for every piece of junk they bring him.”

Oregon narrows his gaze. “Alright, so they’re not Insurrection. They’re too smart, too informed…”

“No idea who they are,” Nevada says. “Either way, we can’t stay here any longer. They’re always patrolling this place like hornets or some shit. Alien hornets, I guess.”

“Have you tried turning on the main engines?”

“Yeah, but those bastards did something that locked us out of operating them-”

_“Oregon?”_

His heart leaps in his throat as the radio springs to life. His own hand nearly knocks him out as he presses against the intercom. “Carolina?! Carolina – are you alright?”

A new, terrifying and throaty voice answers in place of his friend _._

_“If you want to see agent Carolina alive, I suggest you come to Landing Bay B in the next 15 hours, with our artifact in hand, and in **tact**.”_

“Don’t you dare hurt her!” Oregon snaps, jumping from the table in his sudden fury. “You heard me you sick bastard?! Touch her and you’re fucking _done_!”

The line crackles out.

Oregon curses and takes his anger out on the nearest surgical tray, slamming it into the wall and spilling the contents all over the floor. “Goddammit! Goddammit goddammit goddammit _goddammit-_!”

“We’ll get her back,” Nevada says reassuringly. “Oregon, dude, it’s okay. Just chill. We’ll help you get her back, I promise.”

Oregon exhales all his energy at once, feels his lung tighten, and nods. “ _Fuck_. Okay. So we need a plan. What does your enhancement do?”

“Translates alien language.”

“That’s…fucking useless.”

“That’s what I said when they gave it to me! But I’m only a negotiator, dude, I’m not supposed to be doing these crazy missions. I’m like a low tier betalancer.”

“And what does Indiana’s do?”

“Camouflage and translates human language to alien lingo. I can also turn invisible, though it won’t last long because we never got AIs.”

Oregon hesitates, and then looks at them with a grin.

“I actually have an idea.”

   

    

    

   

   

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would also like to point out, if anyone thinks they know the reference to Sarge being agent Iowa then bravo.


	9. Mission Six: No Way Out (Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Indiana is the real MVP

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Went back and edited the entire story front to back. That's mostly what took so long.
> 
> And thank you everyone for all the support! (would you believe I spent fifteen minutes the other day on google hoping someone made fanart for my fics?)

   

   

In another life, he didn’t know war like he does now.

   

“What seems to be the matter, agent Iowa?”

The tacit man absently stirs his coffee with the teaspoon, unyielding gaze locked on the Freelancer across the room from him. It’s the middle of the winter on this planet, and despite all the heat emanating through the vents the cold has seeped through the walls and his steaming drink offers no defensive warmth against the frost. Iowa gradually draws his attention onto the Counsellor before returning his attention to the frozen landscape outside the viewing window.

“Nothing,” comes the gruff reply.

“You appear to be tense. Are you unsettled by the cold?”

Iowa’s grip tightens around his shotgun. Despite attending a simple conference, he carries his firearm at all times (even tucks it into bed at night and reads it a story). Perhaps his past life as a Helljumper has an effect that reverberates into his present self – posture, tension, routine, repeat – distant memories unlike any of the other Freelancers around him.

“Do you ever get the feeling that something bad is gonna happen?” he questions, his tone unnaturally lax as he speaks.

“Why do you ask?”

“Because something doesn’t feel right. I used to act on these urges, you know? Especially when those dastardly Blues were up to no good!”

The Counsellor sips his drink, his calculated eyes never wavering. “So what you are experiencing now is helplessness. You are in a situation in which you cannot deduce the origin of your anxiety, and with no enemies to take the brunt of your blame, you fall back on the most familiar feeling that simultaneously comforts you and grounds you in reality.”

“And what would _that_ be?”

“Offensive reasoning.”

Iowa casts a glare over his shoulder. “With all due respect, _Counsellor_ , there’s always an enemy around. And that’s _not_ what I’m feeling.”

“So what _are_ you experiencing, agent Iowa? Stress? Worry?”

There’s a lapse of time where the Freelancer doesn’t speak, he merely guides his attention to the translucent magenta hue of the late noon sky, turning the snow of the flatlands around them into a mesa latticed by blood. He used to leap into the verge of battle where Hell mended with the far horizon and it isn’t the snow that reminds him of tragedy.

Iowa’s hands shake when he attempts to steady them on his gun. In another life he was fearless, dedicated, a man stripped of everything with one fatal error in the field, transferred among outposts to train the worst of recruits and soon purged and reborn as “Agent Iowa”.

In another life he didn’t know what war was until it was too late.

“A war’s comin’,” he says. “I think it’s time to take our leave.”

   

   

  

* * *

 

 

   

   

_“Who was it? Who betrayed you, agent Oregon?”_

   

Oregon awakens. He knows for a fact that he’s not _awake_ because Carolina shouldn’t be standing across the room from him. Lined against the wall, facing him motionlessly, are every Freelancer currently up to date in the system – the ones that are alive, of course, even the Betalancers like Michigan and Idaho.

He hears Beta somewhere beyond his mind but Rhodie’s voice emanates from over his shoulder to tune the AI out.

_“Why are you doing this, Oregon?”_

“Because I have these memories, these thoughts that are triggered by familiar feelings.” He doesn’t move as Rhodie circles him like a vulture, her hand coming up to slide dangerously along the jaw-length of his helmet. Their armor scrapes gently, catching contours and little imperfections in the paint work. “It doesn’t matter what I’m looking for, a person, a place, a thing – I’m always _searching_ , I’m always trying to recall what it is that’s left me so empty.”

_“And that’s why you’re doing this? Because something is amiss?”_

He watches the soldiers across from him with a steady, unyielding gaze. “I know there’s something that was right in front of me – something that I could have noticed, that occurred too late.”

_“Process of elimination.”_

“Exactly.” He watches as several soldiers across from him begin to crossfade against the translucent white wall. “It couldn’t have been any of the Alphalancers. They all have AIs that would have to report any suspicious activity to the Director, and their instruction can only be overridden by the Director himself.”

_“Carolina gave up her AI, remember?”_

“She would never defect. She’s too motivated – too…”

_“She’s trapped in a constant losing battle for the appraisal of her father because agents like you and Texas are taking her points. Don’t you think it’s a little suspicious how someone as professionally trained as her would be easily captured by those…mercenaries?”_

“We don’t know what happened.”

_“A trap. A set up. A plot devised by the soldier the Director trusts the most…”_

“What about someone else aboard the ship? It doesn’t have to be a Freelancer. Maybe it’s someone working behind the scenes–”

She snorts. _“That’s bullshit and you know it. The staff have security measures they have to follow and FILSS watches them closely. It’s the Freelancers who would be your safer bet.”_

Oregon paces over to the lineup and several soldiers begin to fade against the backdrop. “So I can eliminate any Betalancer who hasn’t been on the ship in a few months due to in-field training at simulation outposts. There’s no way they would know about this mission. Not unless we’re looking at _two_ traitors – and there’s no one way something like that can be safely planned.”

Rhodie appears at his side like a phantom, pulling up several throwing knives to juggle in her hands. _“You overheard Felix saying something, didn’t you? Did that give you any hints?”_

“He said something about one Freelancer. And them being a female.”

Blades whistle through the air as they pierce the chests of half the remaining lineup, shattering each soldier like mirror panels, shards that slide into puddles on the floor. _“Now we’re making real progress_ ,” Rhodie says, sliding her arm over Oregon’s shoulders. _“Still got a few more though.”_

Agents Carolina, CT, Pennsylvania, Oklahoma, and Mississippi. The only few left not out currently in field, with access to no AIs and information on the missions as the ship logs update.

“It can’t be Missi or Penny,” he remarks as they disappear. “They mostly run reconnaissance on simulation locations if the sim-troopers potentially compromise the project. Despite being towards the bottom of the ladder, they’ve never expressed desire to be in the top tier.”

_“You’re ruling it out based on jealousy and connections now.”_

“I have to. There’s gotta be substance to the story.” He faces Oklahoma, a taller girl in bright blue armor accented by red trim. “I’ve never talked to her before. She’s so rarely on the ship, I’m surprised I remember her at all.”

_“So she’s the perfect candidate. You don’t know enough to realize she’s been a mole all along.”_

“No. That means she doesn’t quite have the access the rest of us do to resources and information. She wouldn’t have that knowledge at her disposal.”

_“But the others…”_

“CT is the one who studies our artifacts, is always using our database.” He faces the apparition at his side. “And _you’re_ the one who seems to know the most about Alpha.”

Rhodie holds his glare. He can feel her smirking from under her helmet. _“So now I’m a suspect? But we’re friends.”_

“And you’d better pray it’s not you,” he replies, his tone suddenly dark and menacing.

_“Oh, agent Oregon, is that a threat I hear?”_

“I’m going to kill you if you did this.”

 _“You can’t kill a memory,”_ she says as her intimidation dissipates. As her body breaks off in small particles and drifts in the quiet. He blinks, feeling his mind beginning to fade. Beta’s voice has returned to shake the foundations of his comatose room. _“You didn’t even see what was right in front of you the whole time…”_

He’s awakening.

   

_“And now the end begins.”_

    

   

   

* * *

 

 

 

   

_“Hey, Oregon. Dude. You fell asleep on me.”_

Oregon sits upright with a start as Nevada’s voice breaks through his intercom. He quickly answers it, mildly alarmed but gathering his nerves with equal speed, “Sorry, I was feeling worn out. What’d I miss?”

 _“I’m in position,”_ Nevada answers with an ushered tone. _”I snuck in, but those asshole mercs don’t seem to be here anymore.”_

“Let’s count our blessings. Can you fix the radios?”

_“No problemo, they didn’t damage anything…well, that badly. I should be able to get everything back online by the time you and Junior reach Carolina.”_

Indiana enters the room as Oregon ends the call. He honks and dumps an armful of guns and ammo onto the table top, and triumphantly gestures to the weapons he confiscated from the weapons locker heaven-knows-where, and the leftovers from the scattered bodies of the guards.

Oregon is more than surprised when Junior picks up a newly updated version of the suppressor and the parts of the weapon begin to hover as it’s reloaded.

A light rifle is closest to Oregon so he decides to take it up. “Man, the Project sure doesn’t get upgrades like this,” he says while fumbling with the gun. It spreads apart and he loads a clip of ammo into its upper port. “We’d win every battle with this tech.”

Indiana grumbles in his alien language.

“I think we’ve already established that I don’t speak alien.”

The Freelancer whips around and treks out the door swiftly, honking as he goes.

Oregon straps an assault rifle to his back and just decides to follow his partner. Trap or not, these mercenaries are going to pay.

    

    

   

  

   

The soldier on the platform is outfitted in the newly advanced VI series Locus armor, accented by jaded green over misted gray. Beside him is Felix who is carefully watching the soldiers load the last of any fragile cargo onto the drop ship at the center of the bay.

Carolina is unconscious on the floor behind them, her arms cuffed behind her back and her legs clasped together to restrict her movement. Her aqua armor is scuffed from ricocheted bullets, punches, kicks, and deflected blades. She’s bleeding from a handful of severs in her lower torso. Knife wounds.

“Can’t wait to get off this fuckin’ ship,” Felix mutters.

“Be _patient_. As soon as we depart with this last shipment, they’re going to pull the carrier down.”

“Let’s move the girl to the underbelly,” he says. “She’ll be our bonus.”

 _“I’m_ the one who brought her down,” Locus shoots back.

“You only had the opportunity cause I was busy fucking up the other guy. We should call it even!”

“How is that _even_?”

They cease their bickering when a soldier signals an all-clear. “ _Finally_ ,” Felix hisses and snaps his fingers. Two of their soldiers lift Carolina up to her feet. She’s forced into consciousness by acute stabs of pain as blood spurts out of the tears in her undersuit. “Take her to the dropship,” he orders, “and make sure she remains _immobilized_.”

“Sir,” one lacky says.

“Sir,” the other replies, allowing the Freelancer to lean against his strength for support. Good, she’s still awake.

He snatches the pistol out of its holster on the other soldier’s thigh and raises it to their head. It takes half a second for the merc to recognize the danger, which is all he needs to pulls the trigger, punching a bullet through their skull.

The gunshot resounds. All at once, the mercenaries move.

Felix and Locus whip their guns up at Oregon as his replicated chameleon unit fails. Beta appears just as they fire, only for their bullets to meet the unforgiving panels of the bubble shield, ricocheting in different directions all across the bay. Oregon grabs Carolina by her hip guards, throwing her onto his shoulder. She cries out when her wounds press on his shoulder plate.

“Junior!” he exclaims into the intercom.

A hail of plasma bullets fire down from the ceiling of the hangar. Felix and Locus part and their soldiers scatter to take cover. Felix curses into his intercom channel, spotting Locus taking cover behind a drop ship several yards to his right. “Don’t let them get away! We need Carolina!”

Oregon disappears behind a lopsided shipment of crates. He gently sets Carolina down against the floor and slices through her bonds with his combat knife before fumbling in his med slot for something to seal her wounds. Blood seeps on the slick panels beneath them.

“Oregon?” she murmurs, forcing herself upright.

“You okay?”

She’s watching him as if in disbelief. “You came for me.”

“Of course. Besides, the Director would dismember me if I returned without you in one piece.”

Her palm presses on her torso where the knife wounds appear to run shallow, only deep enough to immobilize, enough to kill without immediate treatment. He pops the top on the canister of skin sealant and injects the tip into the raw frills of her largest wound, spreading the false proteins into her blood. The opening burns immensely as the veins clot where they end.

“You devise this plan yourself?” she asks through grit teeth.

“You’re giving me too much credit. What’d you learn?”

“That tall one in green, his name is Locus.” She’s talking through the pain as he seals her wounds and he’s glad she hasn’t lost too much blood. “He got the jump on me. When I came too, I was pinned down by that shithead in orange, Felix.”

“We’ve met,” he says as he tosses the empty can somewhere over his shoulder.

Carolina grits her teeth. Her lacerations burn like a bitch as they heal, a temporary fix that will have to get her through for right now. “They’re trained, highly skilled – much better than us, and with the ship still down I don’t see a way out of this.”

Oregon grasps her shoulder. “Hey. We’re gonna get out of this, alright? I found Nevada and Indiana and we’re going to escape this ship _together_. I’m not going to leave you behind.”

Carolina nods.

From somewhere in the hangar Indiana screeches in his alien language. Several seconds of gun fire echoes through the bay before the alien appears around the corner of the crates and slams back next to them. Bullet fire ricochets off the other side. Indiana honks at Carolina and reloads his rifle.

“Nice to see you too Junior,” Carolina replies, picking herself up.

Oregon hands her the assault rifle and passes her an extra clip of ammunition. He switches on his channel. “Nevada, I got Carolina! Any progress on that radio tower?”

_“Hell yeah dude! But there’s nothing I can do about fixing anything else. It’s like there’s an outside force affecting the magnetic fields or some shit, the power won’t switch back on.”_

“So what now?”

_“I reconfigured some of the easy stuff, right? Like manual overrides and direct access to the ship’s guidance and purging systems. And then I hit the only switch left that works!”_

The Freelancers exchange uneasy glances.

“And _what_ , pray tell, does that switch do?” Carolina hisses over the radio.

_“Give it a second.”_

The ship pitches. It rattles with movement as it twists out of its orbit around the planet and points its nose towards the terra firma below. The collective realization occurs all too late as Nevada’s voice interjects their thoughts over the radio once again.

_“I’m gonna crash the whole fuckin’ ship!”_

“Why would you do that?!” Oregon snaps back.

_“There’s no other way to create a distraction big enough for us to escape!”_

“We’re still riding the damn thing!”

_“Bow chika wow wow~”_

“If we survive this I’m shooting you myself!” Oregon holsters the pistol and snaps the light rifle off his back. “Beta, prepare the bubble shield. Focus all power on the prioritized panels to prolong its use.”

The AI in black appears over his shoulder. _“Ready. Augmentation is at 1 minute and 45 seconds.”_

Indiana’s enhancement activates. He fades into the background of the hangar.

“We’re gonna try and hold them off,” Carolina tells Nevada over the channel. “ _Please_ tell me you’ve got a better idea than kamikaze dive bombs from orbit.”

_“Well DUH. I’ll be at your location in a few, just keep them occupied until I get there!”_

“Ready?” she asks Oregon, who nods an affirmative. She offers out her fist and they knock knuckles.

The ship takes on a tilt that nearly knocks them off balance as the gravity of Chorus locks them into the exosphere. That’s their cue to split. Their time to fight.

They move together. Oregon slides along the decline in the floor as the ship tilts again, utilizing his momentum to glide by arrays of bullets and take cover under a cargo hold of a drop ship. Hexagonal panels of shield deflect enemy gunfire with relative ease.

He rolls onto his stomach and aims for the merc crossing into his line of sight. The light rifle’s parts hover to scope out the distance, perfecting his aim when he pulls the trigger. Energy bullets pelt the soldier and take them down with little resistance. Epsilon scans the body in the same motion before calling the kill.

_“One down!”_

Carolina is moving against her pain when Oregon searches her out in the battlefield through the scope. She utilizes the tilt in her momentum and jumps at a soldier, locking her legs around his head and snapping his neck around with the sheer strength of her thighs. As she curves down into a roll she utilizes the corpse to absorb the bullets Locus fires off from his sniper rifle.

Felix slides out of seemingly nowhere and rams into Oregon, sending them sprawling out of hiding and knocking the light rifle aside. He out maneuvers with speed even as the ship tilts just a little more forward. The angle is almost enough to rock the dropships in the bay off of their landing pads.

Oregon dodges a punch aimed for his head and plants a solid kick against Felix’s chest, jolting him backwards, leaving just enough room to clamber towards his rifle.

A soldier that tries to shoot him from afar is attacked from the front by Indiana who sinks his teeth into their exposed throat and rips outwards, exposing gore and staining his armor with blood. Indiana moves with animalistic instinct. He drops the body and in the same three seconds takes cover behind a carrier to avoid the spray of bullets from another soldier.

He howls, sprinting up the decline and firing off his plasma bullets at the enemies. One soldier is hit four different times, blowing off an arm in the process. Several others manage to take cover from the return fire.

The ship tilts again. Eight soldiers remain including Locus and Felix and the bay becomes progressively steeper, entering the stratosphere of Chorus.

Felix drops his knee into Oregon’s spine as the agent comes within inches of his gun. The unforgiving knee guard presses on Oregon’s ribs. It nearly crushes the wind out of him despite the thick chest plate protecting him.

“So tell me,” Felix utters, inhaling the scent of charred flesh and thick, wet blood hanging dangerously in the air, “was she worth it?”

“Get the fuck off me!”

A combat knife kisses the back of Oregon’s neck. “Should I cut out your AIs?” he hisses, the tip thumbing curiously at the chip. “I’m so curious to know what happens when you sever flesh from machine. What if I rip these sons-of-bitches right out of your fucking head? Will she have been worth it then? Will all of this be worth feeling your entire mind rip itself apart like the inside of a goddamn _blender_?”

Oregon flings his elbow back. Felix swiftly catches his arm and violently twists it back, pinning his wrist between the crevice of his shoulder blades.

“Rhode Island was right about you,” Felix says with a triumphant grin. With his other hand he sinks the blade into the notch of Oregon’s spine, just below Epsilon’s chip. “Say good bye to your precious memories, and your good for nothing AI!”

_“Hey asshole!”_

Nevada rockets into view with the boosters on his jet pack doubling his inertia. Felix is faster. He jumps out of the way of Nevada’s tackle but gives Oregon the opportunity he needs to scoop up his light rifle and fire off a round that goes wide, impacting the belly of a drop ship behind Felix. The carrier explodes outwards in a violent display that sends them all sailing in different directions.

Oregon and Nevada tumble into a far wall while Felix barrel rolls up to his feet. Locus appears behind him like a ghost, firing off a sniper round that Oregon sees coming just in time for Beta to throw up a bubble shield to encase them both.

Carolina watches her teammates from across the hangar. She punches holes through the lower torso of another mercenary with her assault rifle before throwing herself into a descending slide along the tilted floor. She empties half of her clip aiming for Locus and Felix who fold themselves behind a crate for cover.

Carolina hits the wall feet-first, crying out as the jolt threatens to tear open her wounds once more. Beta expands the field around her.

They stare up at Felix and Locus watching them from the top of the tilt. Indiana guns down the last of their merc team in the background, screams drowned by bullet fire and war cries in his alien tongue. “It’s time to leave,” Locus orders, heading towards their drop ship. “We’ve wasted enough time on this ship.”

“We’ll pick em out of the rubble,” Felix agrees complacently. “Too bad, I wanted that bonus for Carolina.”

The ship breaches the clouds. Oregon curls against the floor as a stray bullet he caught from earlier pushes out of his stomach and expels into the air, leaving a searing trail of liquid fire inside his punctured organs that heal without worry. His cells purge infection like a sterilizer.

Nevada reaches forward and helps him sit up. “Here.” He presents to them an extra jet pack. “There were only two left, but it has a full tank.”

Indiana appears before them and honks. With the immediate threat over Beta drops the shield. They watch as the drop ship carrying Felix and Locus ascends from its launch pad and rockets forward, tearing through the gravitational field and disappearing into the sky.

“Get going,” Carolina orders, snapping the pack to her back.

They right themselves against the angled floor and break into a sprint. Nevada grabs Indiana as they jump out of the hatch and into the sky hurtling behind the ship. Carolina comes to a halt at the edge of the drop off.

“Oregon, hurry up!”

The other Freelancer is two paces behind her and catches up with ease. He grabs her arm just as she vaults backwards into the air, breaking through the field like suddenly smashing into concrete – the torrents of air slam them relentlessly, nearly throwing Oregon out of Carolina’s grasp.

The ship drops out beneath them hundreds of yards faster than they can descend. Carolina eases up on the thruster and pulls to a sudden stop that threatens to yank Oregon’s arm off. Beneath them is the descending S.S. Kingsland. Several moments later, it makes impact.

The initial force of the crash is enough to send an umbrella of debris soaring into the sky. Oregon feels the smoky stimulation of his AI as she senses the danger. “Beta, shields up!”

_“Got it!”_

Panels of energy encase them only a fraction of a second before the shrapnel and flames impact the barrier.

_“Malfunction detected in primary suit functions. 10 seconds until failure of augmentation.”_

“Hang in there!” Oregon snaps back, watching the countdown descend. 7. 6. The intensity of the heat reverberates through the inner sphere. Slivers of metal pelt the hexagons, the shield flickers dangerously as every sparable ounce of power in his suit is routed into the augmentation.

_“5 seconds.”_

The smog forms a mushroom cloud – a veil of corrosion that blinds them beyond the dome.

_“2 seconds. Malfunction detected in primary suit functions.”_

“I heard you the first time! My armor can handle it!”

And then Beta replies. _“I wasn’t talking about yours.”_

The jetpack, losing connection with Carolina’s damaged armor, sputters and then all at once the dome shuts off. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” she mutters.

Oregon’s grip tightens. The jet pack gives out.

_“SHIIIIIT!”_

And they fall.

    

479er’s dropship appears beneath them as they tumble out of the smoke. Oregon hits the roof back-first, catching Carolina against him to break her fall. The drop completely knocks the wind out of him. _“I’ve got you!”_ 479er announces over the intercom. _“Hurry and get in! There’s some magnetic interference trying to shut my ship down!”_

Carolina half-drags a gagging Oregon towards the hatch and Nevada pops it open. They collapse into the hangar one after the other, landing on the unforgiving floor in a near heap as the ship careens into a new course, jetting back up into the atmosphere.

Chorus is left far behind them.

Nevada rolls Oregon onto his back. He gasps for the air that’s left his body, clutching at his tightened lungs. Beta attempts to talk him through a breathing exercise that doesn’t help –

He sees something off in the corner of his mind. Scientists, hunched over a table; a blonde woman yelling at them, screaming at them but her voice is subsumed in the ringing in his ears. Texas. He recognizes her as Texas.

_But why? What is this?_

_“Agents, report. Did everyone make it out?”_

“Affirmative,” Carolina replies to the Director. She glances down at Oregon as he finally stabilizes and rolls onto his side. “We extracted Indiana and Nevada, but the Kingsland crashed on Chorus.”

 _“I see.”_ There’s a pause. “ _I have a medical team on standby for when you arrive.”_

She exits the channel. Her hands are shaking.

“Carolina?” Nevada ushers, taking a step back when she chucks her helmet across the hangar and it hits the wall with an imperative crack.

“I failed,” she hisses under her breath, digging her face into hands and sucking in a shaky breath. She wearily collapses into a seat. “I could have gotten everyone killed. They were better than me – than us – and it was my job to protect you and I… _failed_.”

Nevada kneels down, placing a hand against her upper arm. “You know that’s not true.”

“Please, not now. Not right now.”

He nods and returns to Oregon. Indiana is helping the fallen Freelancer into a seat, mumbling something incoherent in his alien language. “I still don’t understand what you’re saying,” Oregon informs him, as if he hasn’t said it five hundred times in the last 24 hours.

“You gotta learn to read his body language,” Nevada tells him.

“I’m trying to do a lot lately, but it’s hard.”

The agent in aqua grins. “Bow chika-!”

“Shut up, Nevada!”

    

   

  

* * *

 

 

   

   

Oregon is in the middle of being dismissed from the med bay when Tex finds him. He thinks he might have attempted to greet her but she’s already kissing him and all previous thoughts have quite suddenly _exploded_. When she gives him just a moment to recollect himself she cups the shadow of his face.

“Worried?” he muses, receiving a nod.

She exhales relief and treks over to the sealed door of the emergency surgery center. “How’s Carolina?”

“Some minor injuries, she’ll be fine.”

“And what about you?” Tex asks next, turning to him once more. “What’d you find?”

“I found our mole,” he tells her with a hiss, “and she’d better fucking hope I don’t get to her first.”

   

   

  

* * *

 

    

   

   

Carolina recovers by the end of the cycle and they’re debriefed together. Oregon informs them of Rhode Island’s betrayal and of the events that took place across the time span of the mission, but any and all attempts at reaching agent South Dakota prove to be futile. North becomes edgy in his subsequent worry; most Freelancers decide to avoid him for the time being, aside from York who tries to ease his distressed best friend.

At the beginning of the following cycle, Oregon is called to the Director’s office with Carolina and Maine. He doubts it’s for anything pertaining to another mission – not with two missing Freelancers still in the field – but still he’s unnerved.

_Could it be to find South and Rhodes?_

He shows up on time…and walks in on an argument already escalating beyond extreme.

“You would have been safer with an AI,” the Director declares. “As of this moment, I am ordering the immediate relocation of fragment Sigma from agent Maine into agent Carolina.”

Carolina can’t resist her anger. “So then what the hell is Maine going to do?! He can’t speak because he got his goddamn throat shot to pieces by one of your stupid field tests! I gave up one of my – one of _our_ – vital advantages in this project out of sheer goddamn guilt! I don’t want Sigma if Maine gets nothing. You’re not sticking that thing in my head!”

“Enough!” He shouts back. She immediately falls silent. “We will give agent Maine fragment Kappa.”

Oregon feels his AIs curiosity peak. “You have another fragment?”

The trio faces him at he cautiously enters the room. “Two,” the Director responds, “left in storage due to undergoing development. However, fragment Kappa has shown to have a better stability rate with neural connections, and scores several points higher in personality connection to Maine than Sigma does.” He returns his gaze to his daughter. “You are Sigma’s perfect match, Carolina, it is best this way.”

 _“You will suffer no more headaches,”_ Sigma adds, appearing over Maine’s shoulder. _“Although, I will miss agent Maine terribly.”_

Maine merely grunts.

“I still don’t see why Maine is forced to give up Sigma and you can’t just give me Kappa.”

“Sigma is ambitious,” Oregon interjects. “He’s creative and analytical. He’s aggressively invested in learning about everything and anything for his own personal stimulation. Unlike the relative standpoint of Delta’s right and wrong, Sigma lacks the ability to find probability in which is most essential for survival. His understanding of right and wrong is borderline animalistic, based around survival of the fittest over morale obligation. Had he been paired with you, Carolina, you would have appeased to his concepts, but being paired with Maine has left him with no one to discuss this morality, so he has no choice but to continuously develop based on only what he knows on a comprehensive level.”

 _“And what does that matter?”_ Sigma asks quizzically.

“We all know the meta-physical theorem poses a greater risk to any Freelancer who hosts an AI they can’t handle.”

“My decision is _final_ ,” the Director says. “This will be better for everyone. We are on the brink of losing ground in this project – I cannot afford to lose any other Freelancers.” His breath hitches, and then he adds, “I cannot afford to lose you too.”

The emergency alarm blares to life. The group glances up frantically as FILSS’s voice reverberates through the entirety of the gargantuan ship _. “EMERGENCY PERSONNEL ARE TO REPORT TO THE HANGAR DOCKS. EMERGENCY PERSONNEL ARE TO REPORT TO THE HANGAR DOCKS. CODE LEVEL 9.”_

“Code level 9?” Oregon echoes.

 _“That means a Freelancer has been severely injured and is in critical need of assistance.”_ Sigma flickers out and reappears over Oregon’s shoulder. _“Survival rate at code level 9 is typically only 38%.”_

The Director presses his fingers to his temples. “Of course.”

“Who the hell was it?” Oregon asks.

“You are dismissed,” the Director declares, bringing their attention back to him. “Now head to the hangar docks and handle the situation!”

Carolina, Maine, and Oregon file out of his office and rush towards the flight hangar. Oregon wonders for a moment if that Freelancer is Rhode Island – as if to answer his question North rockets out of an adjacent corridor and doesn’t acknowledge them as he sprints down the hall. York follows a split second later.

“York!” Carolina exclaims, catching by his elbow. “What the Hell’s happening?”

“The med team just lifted South out of the carrier,” he explains, the stress set in his voice.

“How bad?” Oregon asks, concerned for South and suddenly quite concerned for Eta.

“The last time we had a code 9 your team came back looking like they went through the blender a few good times.”

That answers that.

They follow York and North across the belly length of the ship into the medical ward and arrive just as the paramed-team rushes a slab through. South has a massive gash slicing open her lower torso beneath the armor, and is bleeding from a likely similar wound on her back. The blood spills over the response team’s pallid white uniforms.

“South!” North stresses, grasping her hand. “South, are you with me?”

“I’m here,” she utters, “fuckin’ bitch knifed me and left me for dead.”

“What happened?”

South gags, and the monitor on the nurse’s handheld device falls into a haywire erratic beat. “No time,” the nurse exclaims, pushing through the emergency surgery center doors, “we’re losing her! Stabilize her now!”

“No, South, _South_!”

“Agent North,” the nurse addresses as they cart his sister away, “it’ll be okay, please stay here.”

As the doors slam shut and bolt into place Eta materializes beside North. She’s whining, behaving erratically, glitching in and out and contorting her appearance into an undefined ball of golden light. _“She’s stressing,”_ Beta utters in the back of Oregon’s mind. _“She’s going to delete herself once South dies.”_

“South’s not going to die,” he utters.

Eta moves across the room. _“South…South…”_ She glitches again and phases over to the sealed door. _“South…”_

Disappears.

_“A lot of us are going to die, Oregon.”_

It’s happening again. Something is coming and now he can _feel_ it.

   

   

  

* * *

 

   

   

  

The Director lifts the pod into his arms gently, moving it across the room with guided steps only to place it on a relocated hologram table. He works swiftly to upload the data into a chip and inserts it into the main drive board. He shouldn’t do this without the Counsellor but there’s no time left.

He can still salvage his Project. He can still finish this once and for all.

_“H-Hello?”_

A small soldier flickers to life before him. The fragment of despair, all of the anxiety and stress and sadness of the experiments compiled into one form and shed without a second thought.

“Hello, _Kappa_ ,” he says and she hums. “Welcome to the world, Kappa. Today is your birthday…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really do appreciate every kudo, comment, and bookmark this story receives! It seriously makes my day! So once again, a super special awesome thank you to everyone who sticks with me through thick and thin and I really hope I don't ever disappoint!


	10. Mission Seven: The Take Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while but i'm back!!! Thank you to everyone for the constant support! You made me really want to keep going. <3
> 
> In which things begin to unravel, and Oregon receives an offer he can't refuse.

**Mission Seven:**

**The Take Down**

* * *

 

Oregon has a dream that he’s shooting. His sniper rifle is fitted against his shoulder, his target is solid against a smudged, incoherent background that only ever seems strange to him upon waking up but in here, in what might be another memory but is just another living nightmare, he believes it all to be real. It’s always real in his head.

 _“Alpha,”_ a voice whispers to him. Always calling from the dark.

As the intensity builds he falls back on pure instinct, feels his mind attempting to work like he’s missing some sort of logic behind his decisions, a missing gear in a machine, and the precision is still unsteady despite his rapidly improved aim. And as he progresses the whispers ascend into coherent voices threading through layers of his mind –

The voices suddenly climax into a sonance of screaming demons.

_“WHO IS ALPHA? WHY CAN’T WE REMEMBER ALPHA?”_

He awakens in a cold sweat and he stumbles into the bathroom to vomit as he always does, shaking and tired and his mind is racing because the dreams are memories he cannot remember, and no amount of comfort from his AIs will ever change that.

He had a dream that he was shooting at himself but the pistol in his hand is desperately, lethally real and it flies up to his temple and he pulls the trigger.

It clicks empty. It always clicks empty.

     

   

   

   

  

   

“And then I wake up. I always wake up, as if there’s something I’m forgetting.”

Florida quirks an eyebrow. “I told you, I don’t know anything else about this Alpha program. I don’t think I have enough information to decipher the meaning of your dreams, either, and I sure as hell don’t understand why you had to wake me up at such ungodly hours to ask about it.”

Oregon is seated on Florida’s bed watching him with intrigue as agent Wyoming snores rather loudly from the bunk above. It’s approximately 0300 hours into the new cycle, an unholy time that is both too early and too late to be awake for any reason, but he doesn’t seem bothered by a lack of sleep. “I trust you,” Oregon says, “and given that half of my circle of friends got offed in a single fucking go, I don’t have many outlet options.”

Florida gives him a passive smile. “Does that mean you finally consider us friends?”

“Shit, I wouldn’t go that far. I’ve got a reputation to keep.”

“A reputation like being seen leaving my room at 3 in the morning?” His smile broadens. “Although, most of us would find it much more plausible than your current relationship with Texas.”

Oregon concedes and hits him in the shoulder. “I don’t know how that happened either, alright? Cut me some slack.”

“Have you thought about confiding in her for once?”

“I do.” Oregon presses his lips together. He does confide her, _mostly_.

Florida gives him a friendly pat on the back. “Listen, bud, why don’t you try and get at least a sliver of rest? I’ll see you in a few hours and we can talk about it then. You know I’ve got your back.”

“I know Florida. Thanks.”

Oregon excuses himself and quietly makes his exit. He decides that his room is much too silent in the aftermath of all his recurring nightmares—(but nothing quite gives him comfort anymore, even after Beta has eased his troubles)—and he finds himself now traversing the corridor to Tex’s bedroom. He knows her code. Lets himself in.

She must know it’s him because she doesn’t immediately jump to her feet and try to gun him down with the pistol she keeps under her pillow, which, in all fairness to her, is something almost every Freelancer does at this point. He wonders if Omega does _something_ right by alerting her only to immediate threats. Or, and this has become the most believable theory to date, Tex has a goddamn sixth sense.

She doesn’t stir when he occupies the space beside her, or even when he jostles the bed with his movement. He pulls the sheet up to his chest and curls against her, his forehead to her neck where the implant presses harmlessly against his skin. His hand gliding across the length of her back is what finally wakens her. She responds with a murmur of, “Leon?”

“I’m here,” he tells her gently, his hand stroking the scar on the back of hip, which is exposed where her undershirt has bunched up in her sleep.

“Nightmares again?” she mutters, her words slurred by exhaustion. She’s had her own fair share of troubling dreams, of short nights, long days, bruises, split lips, but her will is strong and her will is silent, and Oregon hardly ever knows which nightmares are worse than the rest.

He nods against her neck. She has a mark on her shoulder from pugil training that he kisses. It could have been from Maine. It seems to him that as they get older she gets only fractionally slower, so miniscule that her scores don’t notice the way her body does. He traces the curve of her wideset hips, the thick of her thigh, muscles taught, scars eroded.

It's been so long he almost forgets. She had missed several field ops since the shard of metal tore apart her back and left her with this massive, jagged scar from her lower ribs to her hip. That kind of injury had incapacitated her for several cycles – several cycles longer than any injury before it – and it was a relief, to him, mostly, that she was finally able to start exerting her body to its fullest potential with such a short recovery. Sometimes he worries that she’s going to get hurt while he’s around to fuck up missions.

He didn’t think he was still guilty about it. Tex can handle anything, but she shouldn't have to handle another person's mistakes.

So he kisses her collar bone, the depression of her neck, the back of her head, perhaps as an apology. Sorry is a word he’s never used before. Not around her. She’s never needed to hear it.

She could kick him out for being this annoying but she doesn’t.

Instead her hand guides his arm over her waist as she pushes onto her back, allowing him to kiss her forehead, her cheek, her lips because they’ve been keeping their professional distance outside the bedroom and he misses this. He settles against her side, his head to her chest, her arm around his shoulders. She kisses his brow before the lull of sleep takes her again. His spine tingles with the soothing warm and cold presence of his AIs.

Oregon sleeps easier like this, in Tex’s embrace – as if he’ll need her but she’ll never need him, and he’s okay with that – but the nightmares still linger as dreams that do not dissipate.

He doesn’t think they ever will.

   

   

   

   

  

  

The medical ward is busier than usual this week, with South still grounded until her wounds heal enough for her to return to the field, and Maine and Carolina bed-ridden until they can adjust to the transfers of their new AIs. Carolina has already synched up with Sigma with little complaint. The betrayal of Rhode Island is still thick in the atmosphere but no one’s brought it up, at least, not with Oregon in the room. To him it feels like everyone is tired of the same shit, the same old song and dance, there’s no desire to dwell on any of it.

Oregon enters the bay for what feels like the hundredth time since he’s started working on this stupid, mole-infested ship, and treks over to his goliath of a coworker.

“How do you like Kappa, Maine?” he asks, setting a cup of water on the table beside the bed.

Maine grunts as Kappa appears over his shoulder. The AI materializes as a soldier in pink armor, scaled only fractionally smaller than Delta and brandishing a shotgun. She doesn’t greet her sister when Beta appears beside her, but she does face Oregon to answer him confidently.

 _“Maine has experienced a decrease in headaches, and his aggression has already stabilized to normal levels.”_ She gives Oregon a sideways look. _“I can’t believe you would let my brother screw with this poor man’s head like that.”_

“Wasn’t my idea.”

_“Not pointing fingers. Or weapons. Yet.”_

Maine takes the cup of water and drinks it. His throat and chest are heavily scarred, all blade wounds and bullet holes. It bothers Oregon for reasons it shouldn’t. He has yet to have a single scratch linger, any feasible reminder of his humanity. He has yet to feel human.

Oregon glances first at Carolina, fast asleep still from sedatives to ease the pain of adjusting to an AI as developed as Sigma, before he looks at South Dakota seated up in her bed. The blonde is watching Eta with curious eyes as she contorts into a butterfly and explodes into fireworks, much like how Theta appears.

Eta is the younger twin, and almost by nature, she’s shy. As a result, she never adapted the proper coding allowing her to speak properly. She fastened onto South quickly, at the very least, even after being separated from Iota – which Oregon thinks is a way of coping, but she feels safest, and in return for how thankful she is for South’s courage, she tries to keep her partner from getting upset. They are, thankfully, a good match.

Beta appears beside her sister just as Oregon decidedly approaches.

“South, what happened out there?”

“Concerned? I’m flattered.”

He rolls his eyes. Her sarcasm never fails. “I meant, why did Rhodes attack you?”

South crosses her arms dismissively. “Look, Oregon, you don’t quite seem to get it. We weren’t sent on a 'mission'. Not really. She was deployed into the field as if it was a normal walk in the park, and I was sent to pretend to be her partner.”

“Wait, then you were-?”

“Yeah, dipshit. _I_ was supposed to kill the bitch, and she _knew_ that. That means she had a secret best kept hidden, and there’s probably another traitor among our ranks.”

Oregon presses his hand to his forehead. “Fucking hell, this just keeps getting better.”

“Sorry I tried to kill your friend, or whatever, but a job’s a job. So I guess I’m not really sorry.”

“Eh. Job’s a job. No hard feelings.”

"Wouldn't care if there was." They linger for a while afterwards, unmoving, Oregon's eyes on the AIs interacting over South's shoulder, before the sister Dakota finally says, “You know they’re going to make you be the one who kills her?”

“…That’d be a risk.”

“It’d be a test.” South lowers her voice. She fully addresses him without annoyance or sarcastic disdain, as if she’s started pitying him the way he’s come to suspect everyone else does. “She sold us – sold _you_ – out to the mercenaries on that ship. I wouldn’t be surprised if you got called to the Director for a follow-up mission to put a bullet in her brain.”

Oregon scoffs. “Or another mission because three of our best Freelancers are out of commission.”

FILSS comes online through the overhead intercom. _“Agent Oregon, please report to the Director’s office immediately.”_

South smirks but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Wanna place a bet?”

    

   

   

   

   

  

The debriefing room is cold and dreadful and Oregon says nothing.

The Counsellor isn’t there, which is unnerving to begin with. The Director hasn’t opened his mouth yet, which is even more unnerving. Beneath their feet is the rumble of the distant engines that Oregon has come to appreciate, vibrations so powerful they thrum through the ship and up into his boots, shaking under the surface of his skin. It defines the quiet, the sense of unease, the dread like rocks in Oregon's gut.

“You have many questions, agent Oregon.”

 “I want to know about Alpha.”

The Director inclines his head. “I am fully aware, and I have no intentions of keeping Alpha a secret from you any further. However, I can only reveal that information in due time.” He gestures to the table and a holographic projection of an outpost in the heart of a mountain range appears between them. “I will make you a deal, agent Oregon, a fair one.”

“I’m listening,” Oregon says, “but you’d better keep your end of the deal.”

The Director nods again. “This is an Insurrectionist base on a colony planet called Octavia. The team I’m sending in to infiltrate has already been briefed, but I want you to do something else for me when you go with them. When you _lead_ them." He waits for that to sink in before continuing. "We have reason to believe that agent Rhode Island is currently working for the Insurrectionists, or at the very least, she has been feeding them information.”

“Should we blow up the base?”

“Your team will destroy the base upon successfully retrieving the requested data, but you, agent Oregon”—he sets his glare on Oregon’s and the room drops nearly five degrees—“will need to locate Rhode Island. Our informants had previously tracked her down to this outpost, and I am hoping that you can locate her, should she happen to still be somewhere on the planet.”

Oregon feels Epsilon prodding curiously at the back of his mind, seeking out the vehemence, the shame. “So what’s the deal?”

“I want you to find agent Rhode Island, and only if you kill her, I will tell you… _everything_.”

“Do I have your word?”

“My word is not worth much to you,” the Director says blatantly. “Your success will be the defining factor upon your return, agent Oregon, and I will provide all you need. You bring me Rhode Island’s armor, I uphold my own end of our little agreement. Do I make myself clear?”

Oregon can feel his stomach churn. “Crystal.”

“Then you’re dismissed, agent Oregon. We’ll be in touch.”

    

    

   

* * *

 

   

   

   

The landscape of Octavia is coldest at its Southern pole, where the eroded mountains are always thick with snow and the neighboring sun never quite manages to rise over the horizon. It’s been almost six whole cycles since Oregon has been assigned a mission – so of course he’s a little bitter about being sent out to the ass-end of nowhere in temperatures cold enough to insta-freeze the gates of Hell, even if it means tracking down the traitorous Rhode Island.

After what almost happened to Carolina, Oregon thinks Rhodes would be happier in the ground.

He overlooks the ravine below him. The plateau prides itself on being located just high enough to glace the clouds but still offers a vantage point of the mesa below. _Maine should’ve done this shit,_ he thinks to himself, shifting his feet and sinking into the snow. _Fuck_. It’s so fucking cold. Beta tries to emanate her warmth through his suit but to no avail - her presence is neurological, hardly real enough to make any lasting difference.

A gale spirals down the mountain side and blows frost by his visor.

“This is stupid,” he snaps into his intercom, gazing through the scope of his sniper rifle when lights move in the distance, behind the windows of the outpost. “Hurry the fuck up before I get frostbite!”

 _“Quit complaining,”_ CT replies over the radio. _“Bitching about the cold every five minutes isn’t going to make it any warmer.”_

“Says the bitch who’s been inside a cozy building for three hours.”

_“I’m coming out now, you prick. Wash and I just finished the rig. Detonating in fifteen.”_

_“D and I just downloaded a bunch of files from the server,”_ York announces into his intercom. _“Can you give us an extra five?”_

 _“Three,”_ CT replies.

Oregon huffs into his intercom. “Finally. On our way.” He raises his arm and gestures to Texas who’s poised on a plateau across the ravine. She returns the signal with a thumbs-up and kicks on her snow mobile. Oregon watches her tear down the mountain side before hopping onto his own vehicle.

 _“Finished,”_ York declares to his team.

 _“Detonating in fifteen,”_ CT says again.

Oregon rockets down the tundra and pulls up less than a hundred feet south of the building. In his direct line of sight he sees Wash drop down from the overhead window and drive his knife through a lone guard’s chest, killing them instantly. Clasped to his back is a large metal case, perhaps a code-locked container. The Freelancer in gray sprints for Oregon’s vehicle.

Texas pulls up to Oregon’s side a minute later. “I tried to meet CT by the extraction point but she wasn’t there. Now the bitch isn’t answering me.”

He checks the synched timer on the inside of his HUD. Ten minutes til detonation.

“CT, are you clear?” Oregon asks into the channel, but he receives no response. “CT? Goddammit, York, what’s your location?”

_“Don’t worry about me, I just found an extra snow mobile I can jack."_

Wash hops onto the back of Oregon’s vehicle. “Hey, Iota’s sending you those files you requested. I couldn’t find much, but I hope it’s enough.”

The files appear on the inside of Oregon’s HUD as Beta downloads them from her sibling and Epsilon extracts them. The documents are letters sent back and forth between Insurrectionists and Rhode Island, many of the entries deleted, most of them talking about Alpha. Epsilon shows him the location of Rhodie’s last known coordinates at the edge of the nearby city, to the west by the forest.

“You gonna go after her?” Wash asks. He looks at Tex with concern, but she pretends that she’s not bothered.

 _“Agent Oregon,”_ the Director says, his voice humming with static as the weather interferes with the MoI’s transmission from the stratosphere, _“report.”_

 _God damn shit_. “We’re in position. CT is supposed to detonate but has yet to respond.”

_“Very well. Begin making your way to the check point.”_

“Copy that.”

York pulls up to them and looks pointedly at the outpost. “We should probably get going.”

“We can’t leave without CT,” Wash interjects.

“Yeah well, she’s got two minutes before the rig blows everything to-”

The blast goes off with nearly two minutes to spare. The initial heatwave all but levels the building – and as Oregon turns his gaze up, he realizes the explosives were lined all the way up along the mountain side to its peak, as if pre-planted, and the snow and ice come barreling down. Half a wave of Insurrectionists appear on their snow mobiles from the hidden entrances to the outpost, darting out of the trees and underbrushes.

“That’s a bad sign,” York says.

Texas reacts first, kicking her snow mobile into gear and racing off down the pass. Oregon follows only a split second behind her with Wash clutching his shoulders to avoid tumbling off and York dead set in their wake.

They rocket down the frozen mesa as the tides of snow roar across the mountain, burying trees and any soldier who took off too late from the outpost. The Insurrection soldiers that pass within range draw out their guns and open fire on the Freelancers.

Oregon swerves through the maze of the forest. Wash returns with short bursts from his assault rifle and manages to hit the closest driver in the head, sending the vehicle careening into a boulder. “Oregon to Four-seven-niner!” Oregon calls into his radio. “We’re taking heavy fire!”

“And there’s an avalanche!” Wash adds, this time hitting the Insurgents diverging on them from both sides. One vehicle catches fire and explodes, consuming the oncoming pair of soldiers in the blaze, and the second Insurgent is struck in the chest, sending him straight into a tree.

_“Roger that, I see you guys.”_

479er’s aircraft appears overhead. She streamlines ahead of them and pivots the plane into a complete 180. Her tracking systems lock onto the Insurgent forces closing in around the Freelancers. She tilts her weapons. And she fires.

The missiles burst forward, slamming down into the upturned snow banks and blowing a handful of the soldiers off their vehicles. Several other Insurgents meet the brunt of the rockets and are blown to pieces, clearing a path for York as he leaps over a frozen hill and lands on Oregon’s right. Tex barely has to aim with her pistol as she pulls up on the left, hitting almost every soldier she aims for.

An Insurgent behind them balances on the back of his driver’s mobile and fires off a shot at her treads, blowing out her wheels. The friction immediately ignites with flames as Tex slides across the snow until she’s behind York.

“York!”

“I got ya!” he exclaims, pulling back on his brakes.

Tex kicks off her ride and lands in the passenger seat of York’s sled. Her mobile crashes head-long into the Insurgents pursuing them. Another pair of soldiers pull up to their side but Tex reacts faster, lashing out with her pistol so it catches in the treads and sends them into a barrel roll that crushes the passenger almost instantly. Only a moment later they're consumed by the raging avalanche.

Tex pulls the assault rifle from its maglocked position on York’s back. She assesses the remaining Insurgent vehicles and fires at the ones that make an attempt at getting closer. Bullets whistle by her as York maneuvers wildly through the ice. A bullet hits Oregon in the side, and they only realize this because he shouts and almost loses control of the vehicle. Wash pushes forward, grabbing hold of the left throttle to balance them out.

"I've got it!" Oregon snaps back, shoving Wash away with his elbow. "Just keep shooting!"

The collapsing snow is consuming everything in its path and the incline speeds up its descent until it’s only several yards behind their shadows. The Insurgents ahead of them converge, passengers firing at the Freelancers in the rear. They split and swerve and glide from side to side, making it difficult for Wash's shots to meet their marks. Oregon slams on the gas and rams into the back of the closest mobile, flipping the Insurgents into the snow. 

“New extraction point!” Oregon tells them, looking pointedly at the end of the ravine ahead. “Niner, catch us!”

_“Got it!”_

Out of the underbrush another mobile appears, riding level with the team as they enter the final stretch of the tundra. Oregon recognizes CT with her arms around the Insurrection commander, her glare set and venomous beneath the helmet, pointed at Oregon. _“You were supposed to get killed with the rest of them,”_ CT says into her intercom. _“How many people have to die for you, Alpha?”_

Tex aims her rifle and fires. The bullets rip through branches and snow and deflect off the body of the mobile. CT holds Oregon's gaze only a moment longer. And then, with a pivot, she’s gone, hidden by the snow, by the trees and the wind.

“We're going after her!” Texas declares but Oregon cuts her off.

“It’s too dangerous! We’re better off getting this information to the Director first!”

Tex looks at him in bewilderment, to the forest, back to him. "And what, let her get away?!"

"Yes!" He shoots back. "I promise Tex, we'll get a second chance! But we're not going to stop anyone if we're dead!"

To his immediate surprise, she refocuses on the path ahead. Agent Texas of all people could kill the entire Insurrection army and still chance walking of the avalanche alive, but she still has her priorities. She knows that. Maybe she knows that there’s more to worry about beyond agent Connecticut right now. Like said avalanche now biting at their heels, devouring the mountainside in ruin and rubble and ice.

479er's aircraft hovers just out of range of the cliff.

“Ready to jump?” Oregon announces.

“Wait!” Wash exclaims. “What do you mean by-?!”

Oregon and York launch into the ravine. They all jump for the edge of the plane’s wing, Tex landing entirely on the carrier, York grabbing hold with ease, Oregon reflexively reaching his arm out to grab ahold of Wash’s hand when he falls short of the mark. Oregon’s grip nearly slips from the edge of the wing but Tex moves faster and clutches Oregon by his back plate to keep him upright.

479er veers up just as the snow tumbles over the cliff, taking with it snow mobiles and Insurrection soldiers. The rest of the survivors diverge towards the city, avoiding the last remnants of the avalanche as it rolls down the flattening mountain side. Oregon watches them escape. From this distance, he can't locate CT.

“Please don’t drop me,” Wash mumbles, refusing to look down.

Tex is watching Oregon. He knows exactly what she isn’t saying.

* * *

 

479er slows her descent over the original rendezvous point just north of the colony city, and as per Oregon’s request, she lets him and (thanks to her insistence) Texas dismount. Oregon sees the coordinates on his map blink. West, by the forest, only twenty or so minutes if they highjack a car. Oregon feels the bullet hole mending underneath his chest piece, but he might let Tex drive.

 _“What about CT?”_ York asks.

“We’ll deal with that later,” Tex replies. “Oregon and I have to make sure these coordinates aren’t an Insurrection hideout first.” It’s not a lie. Not really.

Wash sighs. _“The Director’s gonna be pissed.”_

“Tell us something we don’t know.”

 _“I’ll come back for you,”_ 479er says over the radio as her aircraft rises into the sky. _“Make sure you don’t get yourselves killed.”_

 _“Are you sure you don’t want us coming with you?”_ York questions now, but he doesn’t get a response and frankly, he wasn’t expecting one.

It’s unnerving all the same.

   

   

   

* * *

 

   

    

   

The frost on the grass is barely cold enough to kill it and the avian creatures pecking at the ground don’t seem fazed either. Laying at the outskirts of the colony is a single military shack, barely big enough to fit two people, let alone the dozen soldiers that survived the avalanche. At the very least, Tex can report that it’s not a hideout. At the very least, she has something to fill up the report.

Oregon gives Tex as a look, something hidden beneath his helmet that she fully understands. "I'm here," she utters, squeezing his hand. Letting him go.

Rhodes is fully suited in her armor but her helmet is missing, perhaps sold off or left with the Insurrection for financial reasons, and she stands poised in the field as if she knew they were coming. Oregon figures that Rhodes was already informed. Or she simply witnessed the disastrous race up on the mountain. It unsettles him all the same, to think that she could have been allies with CT when they never spoke a word to each other.

“I could have left,” she says placidly as Oregon approaches her.

Tex is within a safe distance, Oregon’s sniper rifle in her hands with the scope trained on the other agent’s exposed forehead.

“You didn’t.”

“There’s no point. I’ve done my job.” Rhodes turns to face him fully, bags under eyes, hair unkempt. “The Insurrection got what they wanted and I couldn’t stop them." Not an ally, then. Oregon doesn't know what to say about that. "And I’m betting that CT’s the one who set off the explosion on the mountain top, huh? She's wanted you dead from day one. I guess I should have put two and two together.”

The zephyr that blows between them is as cold and unforgiving as it should be.

“You sold us out,” Oregon snaps, trying to keep his cool but goddammit this broken, hollow woman used to be his goddamn _friend_. “You should have run when we infiltrated the outpost.”

“I wasn’t going to run, Oregon. Not from you.” Her eyes flicker, briefly, to an avian beast that careens across the sky. "Not any more."

“What did you tell those mercenaries?”

“I didn’t tell them much,” she replies. She brings her arm up and takes his hand in hers, rubbing her thumb carefully over his, “not really. I told them you and Carolina were prized. Nothing about Alpha…just that they could probably get a bonus out of their provider for your apprehension.”

“Why, Rhodie?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t…” She has no weapon, no knife or gun or anything. She’s entirely exposed to him and she cries because there’s no use pretending she could take him in a fight. “I didn’t know what else to do. If you went back to the Director…”

Oregon pulls away from her. “What are you saying?”

“I wish I could tell you,” she replies. Chokes on a sob. She wipes the tears from her eyes. “But you shouldn’t hear it from me. It was stupid of me to think you would…I’m so sorry.”

“Rhodie...Rhodie, I have to kill you now.”

Her eyes finally rise to meet his and her shields go up between them. The frost of the winter landscape sticks to the panels. “I know, Oregon. That’s all you – all _we_ – know how to do, isn’t it? Kill. Serve. Repeat and repeat again and again and again so we can finally feel human.” She sobs into her hands, her shoulders shaking in utter defeat, in complete shame. “I fucked up. I tried to do the right thing and I just fucked everything up! I'm so goddamn sorry!”

Oregon is unmoving, the sting of tears blurring his vision. Everything is crumbling around him. It has been, he realizes, since the day he first became friends with Rhode Island. Since the day he was enlisted onto Project Freelancer. Since the day the Director invented the AI.

“So just kill me!” Rhodie screams. “Do your fucking _worst_ , Church!”

Oregon does not lower his gaze. He simply flexes his fingers, and then breathes. “Beta...”

_“Augmentation replicated.”_

With the speed of near lightning he rockets forward, smashing easily through the panels of her shields with Tex’s inhuman strength. Her equipment is nothing with an AI. Her combat ability is even less.

His hands are wrapped around Rhodie’s neck and he slams them down into the grass with enough force to tear the ground apart.

The birds scatter into the silver sky.

His hands clench her throat. There’s no fight left in her. Nothing, just a broken shell that knows too much, about him, about the Director and about Project Freelancer. “You shouldn’t have sold us out,” he hisses, tightening on her neck. Cutting off her pulse point, her airways.

A single tear slides down Rhodie’s cheek.

A whisper.

“Oh, Church…I’m so sorry I couldn’t save you.”

There’s a sickening crack. And then silence.

    

   

   

* * *

 

   

    

  

Tex and Oregon don’t talk until the debriefing. York and Wash glance uneasily at Oregon as time presses on without a word from him, even when he dumps Rhode Island’s armor onto the table and doesn’t acknowledge the Director’s appreciation for returning it (most of it). Tex lets herself, just this once, say nothing either. It's not like words could fucking help.

“We knew about agent Connecticut,” the Director admits finally, as the Counsellor updates the scores on the board behind him. “We’ve known about agent Connecticut for a long, long time.”

“But you sent us out there with her anyway,” York remarks.

“I did. We still had use for her, despite all that has happened.” The Director approaches the table. “It is a shame she defected, just as I figured. It is a greater shame that you did not manage to retrieve agent Connecticut’s armor as you did Rhode Island’s.”

The group is quiet.

“I suppose we must be diligent in the search for agent Connecticut then,” the Director says next, “especially as our enemies lose their grounds. Today’s mission was a fine success.”

“Thank you sir!” the agents manage to recite together. The board is updated and Oregon moves above Florida, securing his spot at number 11, and CT's name is bracketed by red before sliding completely off the chart.

“Agent New York, agent Washington; you are both dismissed.” The Director looks attentively at Oregon as he waits for the other agents to take their leaves. The door slides shut behind them. There is another quiet before the Director finally says, “I will uphold my end of the agreement, agent Oregon. So now..." He nods to Texas. "Now you will finally learn the truth.”

Texas sweeps off her helmet, tucking it under her arm. She approaches the front of the room, turns, eyes heavy as her presence commands attention and her hands are, for once, slack, uncombative.

“Tex?” Oregon mutters in disbelief. “What’re you doing?”

“It was supposed to be me, Leon.”

“What?”

Tex looks away _._ And then back at him. All at once the room spins and it becomes too difficult for Oregon to breathe.

  

_“I’m the Alpha.”_

   

   

   

* * *

 

  

    

    

Elsewhere, across the ship, the fragments jolt as they feel their Alpha’s call somewhere in the dark.

Sigma startles Carolina who has been tabbing through CT’s files on the Super Soldier experiment program and Rhodie’s information on the Alpha, a task assigned to her by her father as if there's something she'll find he didn't. The back of her skull tingles with warmth as her AI greedily absorbs all the facts and documents she reads, his ambition only embers compared to the thoughts he formulates with his growing desire.

Maine never gave Sigma real opportunities like this.

And Alpha's now awake. A super soldier.

 _“Yes, a super soldier. An ideal image of the closest to perfection the world can get_.” Sigma flickers back over Carolina’s shoulder, leaving embers in his wake. _“We could be that soldier,”_ he mutters. _“If we work together better than how I worked with Maine, perhaps we can achieve greater heights.”_

“Don’t get Maine involved.”

_“I was talking only about us. You and me, Carolina. I am your AI, after all, and my only purpose is to further your output in the field.”_

“Enough.”

 _“Hear me out,”_ he interjects, hovering before her visor again so their eyes can meet. _“You’re tired of failing the Director, aren’t you? Of always looking up at the board and witnessing your gradual slip from grace, from being prized by your beloved father… We can fix that. Together.”_

She presses her lips together. But she’s listening.

_“You could collect the other AIs as time progresses, one by one, integrating my family into your suit. And then you will be the best agent on the Project once more.”_

No response.

 _“Think about it, Carolina…a way you could never fail again. To become better than even Texas."_ Sigma feels her nerves twinge, a fire to counter is. She's more than just listening. _"All you need are the parts to become your own Alpha. Become absolute, become unstoppable, become a force your enemies will bow to at the mere mention of your name.”_

Carolina glances at the information on the screen. There's no hatred for Texas or any of the other Freelancers, for that matter, but her jealousy, her envy, her irrational need to reclaim what was hers...it diverges all at once, overwhelming her and defying her and defining her. Her gaze is hardened over and her AI emanates with her anger. She feels the burning fire of Sigma raging through her system, passionate and raw and powerful, synching perfectly with her resolve and her creativity and her desire.

_“Become the Meta.”_

She feels her lips curving into a smile.

“Let’s get started.”

  

  


End file.
